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PRICK 10 CKl^TS 


t>. 373. Si:\«I.K .iriJMBKR. 



1 

I 



THE WAITING ON AN ISLAND 


17 TO 27 VaNdeW/tef^ 

•j^ewTo^k;;- 






TOT^rmr 


jiv. j, * ion, issueu ii. ^ . 

righted 1884, by George Munro— Entered at the Post Office at New York at second class rates- 






MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 

THE SEASIDE LIBKAEY.-POOKET EDITION. 


NO. PRICE. 

1 Yolande, By 'William Black 20 

2 Molly Bawn. By ‘‘The Duchess” 20 

3 The Mill on the Floss. By Georg^e Eliot 20 

4 Under Two Fiagrs. By “Ouida” 2C 

5 Admiral’s Ward. By Mrs. Alexander.. 20 

6 Portia. By “ The Duchess” 20 

7 File No. li3. By Emile Gaboriau 20 

8 East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry Wood. .. . 20 

9 Wanda. By ” Ouida ” 20 

10 The Old Curiosity Shop. By Dichens. 20 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman. MissMulock 20 

12 Other People’s Money. By Gaboriau. 20 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal. By Helen B. Matliers 10 
! 14 Airy Fairy Idlian. By ” The Duchess ” 10 


15 Jane Eyre. By Charlotte Brout6 20 

16 Phyllis.' By “ The Duchess ” 20 

17 The Wooing O’t. By Mrs. Alexander.. 15 

18 Shandon Bells. By William Black. .. . 20 

19 Her Mother’s Sin. By the Author of 

” Dora Thorne ” 10 

20 Within an Inch of His Life. By Emile 

Gaboriau 20 

21 Sunrise. By William Black 20 

22 David Copperfie'd. Dickens. Vol. I.'. 20 

22 David Copperhead. Dickens. Vol. H. 20 

23 A Princess of Thule. By VVilliam Black 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. Dickens. Vol. I... 20 


24 Pickwick Papers. Dickens. Vol. H.. 20 

25 Mrs. Geoffrey. By “ The Duchess ”... 20 

26 3Ionsieur Lecoq. By Gaboriau. Vol. I. 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Gaboriau. Vol. H. 20 

27 Vanity Fair. By William M. Thackeray 20 

28 Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

29 Beauty’s Daughters. ” The Duchess ” 10 

30 Faith and UuLiith. By ‘‘The Duchess” 20 

31 Middlemarch. By George Eliot 20 

32 The Laud Leaguers. Anthony Trollope 20 

33 The Clique of Gold. By Emile Gaboriau 10 

34 Daniel Deronda. By George Eliot ... 30 

35 Lady And ley’s Secret. Miss Braddon 20 

36 Adam Bede By George Eliot 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles Dickens 30 

38 The Widow Lerbuge. By Gaboriau. . 20 

39 In Silk Attire. By William Black 20 

40 The Last Days of Pompeii. By Sir E. 

Bulwor Lytton 20 

41 Oliver Twist. By Charles Dickens .. .. 15 

42 Romola. By George Eliot 20 

43 The Mystery of Orcival. Gaboriau.. .. 20 

44 Maclebd of Dare. By William Black. . 20 

45 A Little Pilgrim. By Mrs. Oliphant... 10 

46 Very Hard Cash. By Charles Reade.. 20 

47 Altiora Peto. By Laurence Oliphant.. 20 

48 Thicker Than Water. By James Payn. 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch. By Blade... 20 

50 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 


By V7illiam Black 20 

51 Dora Thorne. By the Author of ‘‘Her 

Mother’s Sin ” fX) 

62 The New Magdalen. By Wilkie Collins. 10 

53 The Story of Ida. By Francesca 10 

64 A Broken Wedding-Ring. By the Au- 
thor of ‘‘Dora Thorne” 10 

55 The Three Guardsmen. By Dumas. ... 20 

66 Phantom Fortune. Miss Braddon.... 20 

67 Shirley. By Charlotte Bront6 20 


[this list is contoued 


NO. PRICK. 

58 By the Gate of the Sea. D. C. Murray 10 

59 Vice Versa. By F. Anste}' 20 

60 The Last of the Mohicans. Cooper.. 20 


61 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. Rowsou . 10 

62 The Executor. B}- Mrs. Alexander. . 20 

63 The Spy. By J. Penimore Cooper. .. 20 

64 A Maiden Fair. By Charles Gibbon . . 10 

65 Back to the Old Home. By M. C. Hay 10 

66 The Romance of a Poor Young Man. 


By Octave Feuillet 10 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Blackmore. . 30 

68 A Queen A mongst Women. By the 

Author of ‘‘ Dora Thorne ” 10 

69 Madolin's Lover, By the Author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

70 While Wings. By William Black . ... 10 

71 A Struggle for Fame. Mrs. Riddell.. 20 

72 Old Myddelton’s Money. ByM. C. Hay 20 

73 Redeemed by Love. By the Author of 

‘‘ Dora Thorne ” 20 

74 Aurora Floyd. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

75 Twenty Veai’S After. By Dumas... 20 

76 Wife in Name Only. By the Author of 

‘‘ Dora Thorne ” 20 

77 A Tale of Two Cities. By Dickens. .. . 15 

78 IMadcap Violet. By William Black... 20 

79 Wedded and Parted. By the Author 

of ‘‘ Dora Thorne ” 10 

80 June. By Mrs. Forrester 20 


81 A Daughter of Heth. By Wm. Black. 20 

82 Sealed Lips. By F. Du Boisgobey... 20 

83 A Strange Story. Buhver Lytton^ . , . 20 

84 Hard Times. By Charles Dickens. .. 10 

85 A Sea Queen. B3' W. Clark Russell.. 20 


86 Belinda. Bj’ Rhoda Bi oughton 20 

87 Dick Sand ; or, A Captain at Fifteen. 

B.y Jules Verne 20 

88 The Privateersman. Captain Marr^'at 20 

89 The Red Eric. Bj' R. M. Ballantyne. 10 

90 Ernest Maltravers. Buhver Lytton.. 20 

91 Barnaby Rudge. B3’ Charles Dickens. 20 

92 Lord lA-nne's Choice. By the Author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 


93 Anthony Ti’ollope's Autobiography.. 20 

94 Tattle Don-it. B3' Charles Dickens. . . 30 

95 The Fire Brigade, R. M. Ballant3 ne 10 

96 Erling the Bold. By R. M. Ballantyne 10 

97 All in a Garden Fair. Walter Besant.. 20 
9S A Woman-Hater. By Charles Reade. 15 
99 Barbara's History. A. B. Edwards. . . 20 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. By 

Ju 1 es V erne '. ”. 20 

101 Second Thoughts. Rhoda Broughton 20 
lOi The Moonstone. By Wilkie Collins.. . 15 

103 Rose Fleming. By Dora Russell 10 

104 The Coral Pin. By F. Du Boisgobey. 30 

105 A Noble Wife. By John Saunders 20 

106 Bleak House, By Charles Dickens. . . 40 

107 Dombey and Son. Charles Dickens. . 40 

108 The Cricket o . the Hearth, and Doctor 


Marigold. By Charles Dickens. ... 10 

109 Little Loo. By W. Clark Russell 20 

110 Under the Red Flag, By MissBraddou 10 

111 The Little School-Master Mark. By 

J, H. Shorthouse 10 

112 The Waters of Marah. By John Hill 20 

N THIRD PAGE OF COVER.J 


Im 




J 


■ LOVE AND MIRAGE 

"or, 

THE WAITING ON AN ISLAND. 



AN OUT-OF-DOOR ROMANCE. 



NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 TO 27 Vandewater Street. 

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LOVE AND MIRAGE 


fc; 




CHAPTER 1. 

THE LANDING. 

Free to roam and free to love! Could words more welcome come 
and go in a young man’s brain? Unbidden were they there, and un- 
bidden stayed they, after the fashion of all sweet guests, sure of ap- 
proval as the rose and the zephyr; and the happy conviction some- 
how took possession of Arthur Venning’s mind that, having roamed 
so far, he should find love. If not here, where, indeed? This sunny 
Xfiace seemed made for love and romance — a little world islanded 
from commonness or vulgar gloss. As yet he was but on the thresh- 
old; and what a fresh and tranquilizing picture met his eyes that 
summer morning! what soothing sounds greeted his ears accustomed 
to the bustle ot cities! Close under the windows of the little hostel 
flashed quiet waves upon a green shore, and the sun, as it rose 
slowly in the heavens, shone upon a repetition of the same scene — 
far and wide, cool gray waters and grassy banks. A few hundred 
yards lower down lay the little steamer which had landed Arthur 
Venning and his fellow-traveler on this sweet place the night before, 
and it was with a feeling of satisfaction he now watched it gradually 
move away in the direction of the open sea. The last link binding 
him to the world of every day was broken. Who freer now to wan- 
der and to love? 

It might seem strange to others, as indeed it often perplexed him- 
self, that a young man so favored of nature and circumstance as 
Arthur Venning should be in quest of romance. He blamed rather 
the world, whose favorite he was, than himself, tliat he had well- 
nigh reached his thirtieth year without ever having fallen in love. 
Men go a- wooing and maidens are won, it is true, in brilliant circles 
of great cities, but are hearts ever broken there? Arthur Venning 
had no wish to break his heart, he only wanted to feel sure that he 
possessed one; like many another he was rebelling against the mo- 
notony with which excess of culture has leavened social life. He 
would fain taste a little naturalness, breathe a more ingenuous air. 
His best years must not be absorbed m coldly gratifying a curious 
intellect, or enjoying an existence no less satisfactory to himself than 
to outsiders. Lazily as he might acknowledge the fact, it was patent 
to all. Hone could pronounce Arthur Venning a failure. 

But is not that life a failure which has no passion in it? Yes, 
said this young criticof life, in general, and hisown being especially. 
It must be so, otherwise the great poets of all time have but fabled, 
and poetry itself is a sham and a make-believe. Then he smiled at 


LOVE AND MIRAGE. 


4 

the notion that a man of the world like himself, and a frequenter of 
fastidious circles in London and Paris, should have come to this 
outlandish spot in search of an emotion. 

With that smile on his lips, half satirical, half self-approving, he 
set about the business of his toilet. After all, he reasoned, continu- 
ing his soliloquy, what are the ending of most romance but disillusion 
and commonplace? The fireside, the home, the headship of a house: 
are these to be set against a man’s freedom? Never. 

His thoughts were rudely disturbed by the intrusion of a head, 
with hair the color of his own, from behind the door, and a voice 
asking, in humorous dismay, 

“ Did you put in any soap?” 

Only a brother could have intruded thus, and with brother-Jike 
unceremoniousness the speaker was answ'ered by a bar ot soap flung 
at his head. Then the elder shouted, as he went on with the - busi- 
ness of dressing, 

“You lazy fellow! 1 thought you were out reconnoitering long 
ago.’-' 

*‘ And 1 could hardly believe my ears when I heard you get out 
of bed just now. You were to be up at five o’clock,” retorted the 
other. 

‘‘ 1 wish you would make haste and look after a trap,” replied 
Arthur. ” 1 say, Hervey, 1 can get a sketch if you will send me a 
cup of coffee and manage everything.” 

“ Sketch away,” was the good-natured answer, and the careless 
dialogue nicely indicated the position ot the pair: Arthur’s play- 
fully assumed superiority, Hervey’s as playful submission. 

The elder brother did not aver of the younger, 

“ All thy passions, matched with mine. 

Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine.” 

A stranger might have made the comparison with some aptness. 
The two were uncommonly alike; but as yet the alike force of char- 
acter and mental supremacy clearly belonged to the first-born. 
Arthur, moreover, had a better presence, a finer appearance, al- 
though nature had kindly endowed both brothers as to the outer 
man. And Arthur had already made himself a position in the world 
of art and letters, while Hervey, ot an artistic turn also, although 
presumably studying law, was still wondering what he should do 
with himself and his opportunities. 

Meantime the sketcher set to work in business-like fashion, and 
the idler went down-stairs to flirt with the pretty girl preparing 
breakfast, make acquaintance generally, and find out what was to 
be had in the shape of a conveyance. The people assorted well with 
the place, a charming rusticity, an ingratiating pastoralness stamp- 
ing both, not unmixed with a touch of roughness, free, however, 
from acerbity. The brothers continued their journey in exuberant 
spirits. Their carry-all was ot the rudest— tor seats they had only 
sacks stuffed with sti aw — the horses ambled slowly over stony ways; 
but the pleasant little land, the pearly sea hemming it round about, 
the glowing noon after the cool day-spring! How could they ever 
forget these first impressions? 

And as they journeyed on amid the yellow corn-fields, losing sight 


• LOVE AKD MIRAGE. 6 

of the sea tor awhile, a veritable Eden seemed this unknown island 
under the northern star. 

There were roses growing in strange abundance before thatched 
dwellings — the trimmest, most romantic imaginable. “ Surely tay- 
folk should live in them,” said Arthur to his companion. Nor were 
the golden plateaux between village and village hardly less wonder- 
ful, so had the flowers run riot from one end of this land to the 
other. It was one vast parterre in the midst of cool, gray seas. 
Lovelier and more surprising still was the last stage -ot their journey, 
for straightway tlie road led them, without warning, into the heart 
of a dense beechen forest, where once more they caught gentle sea- 
sounds. When they emerged, instead of mellow corn-flelds and Ar- 
cadian homesteads, there lay the blue waves close under their feet, 
wooded ways and hanging rose-gardens leading down to the marge. 

“ Arrived then!” said Hervey, turning over the pages of a six- 
penny guide-book bought on the othei' side of the water. “ And 
yonder handsome white house, with the lawn and the lime-trees, 
should be the hotel. Suppose we dine?” 

” Suppose we do; and we can make out our plans afterward,” 
said the elder brother, wholly absorbed in contemplating the naive 
graces of the place. ‘‘ But, my stars, how beautiful! I must go to 
the water’s edge.” 

“ There goes the dinner-bell. A table dliote at noon, then? W ell, 
I will go indoors and secure our places,” Hervey good-naturedly re- 
plied. 

He paid the driver and sauntered toward the hotel, while Arthur 
found his way to the shore — five minutes’ walk only by whitewashed 
cottages, each standing in its bower of roses. This was the village 
street, and the uses to which the fisher -folk had turned their homel^y 
dwellings was indicated by the prevailing life and bustle. 

Arthur Venning sighed as he met groups of well-dressed holiday- 
makers. The world, if not fashion, then, had invaded his Arcadia. 
Yet he admitted that there might be consolations as he caught sight 
of one pair of blue eyes after another. Where, indeed, should these 
northern roses and northern beauties be found together except under 
such conditions? This cool, green island, caressed by summer seas, 
was inaccessible during the greater part of the year. It must be taken 
like a wit when in the humor. He was about to descend a little 
wooden stair leading to the shore, when Hervey came up to him 
flushed with running. 

“ You really must turn back,” he said. ” The dinner has begun, 
and 1 have secured our places opposite the two prettiest girls in the 
world. Was ever such luck?” 

Back they turned, therefore, Arthur as usual making merry at his 
brol tier’s expense. How absurd it was, ever working himself up to 
a pitch of excitement about pretty girls, and nothing coming of it 
year after year. Nevertheless, when he took his seat he could but 
acknowledge that Hervey was right. The pair of sisters on the other 
side ot the table were— well— quite distractingly pretty, thought the 
young man, as, having bowed courteously, he glanced from one to 
the other. 

Blue eyes, silken curls, rosy lips, and velvety cheeks, however, are 
common enough, and often make up a combination wholly uninter- 


6 


LOVE AKD MIllAGE. 


esting. Nothing, indeed, gives the observer a more irritating sense 
of waste than prettiness without beauty; but here was a charm in- 
dependent of both. The look, the glance, the expression, call it by 
wdiat name we will, of the two beautiful sisters, might have re- 
deemed a downright ugly face; and is not the look in a human be- 
ing what manner is to a book? If that fails to please, all other 
graces are vain, or touch us coldly. We may be instructed after a 
fashion; enriched and delighted, never. 

Like as were the pair in the matter of eyes blue as alkanet, the 
loveliest blush imaginable, brown hair, and teeth of pearl, there was 
the same difference between them as between the brothers. The 
largest share of outward beauty, and evidently strength of character, 
had fallen to the first-born. Just as Hervey was a copy of Arthui, 
so the younger girl was a copy of the elder — a charming copy, too! 
One hardly covked the original more than the picture beside it. It 
must here be explained that the Teutonic maiden has little in com- 
mon with a certain type of her English or American sister. 

This quartette could now fall into easy, pleasant talk without need 
of further introduction than a smile and an inclination of the head; 
firstly, because such was the fashion of those parts, but chiefly be- 
cause coquetry is not a plant that flourishes on German soil. The 
naturalness of the girls’ behavior was due as much to circumstances 
as to character. They could freely talk with two strangers of the 
other sex because custom permitted, and there was no consciousness 
of being on fojbidden ground to lead them further. And if not 
here, surely in no corner of the world could ceremony be dispensed 
with. Who would be at the trouble of going half-way to the North- 
pole without perspective reward? 


CHAPTER II. 

“eyes blue as alkanet.” 

An introduction of some kind can generally be contrived by those 
Who have their wits about them. Arthur, ingenious of the ingen- 
ious, a stickler by routine in the matter of etiquette to boot, before 
ten minutes were over had put himself and his brother almost on the 
footing of old friends. He recollected that he had with him the card 
of a well-known German professor whose pupil he had been at Got- 
tingen years ago, and now produced it with excellent effect. The 
lines scrawled on the back were so conveniently worded as to intro- 
duce him at any time, to any one, and in any place. 

The elder girl smilingly read it and handed it to her sister; she in 
her turn, after perusal, passed it on to the elderly pair under whose 
protection they seemed to be. 

‘‘ Very good, very good!” 

Thus saying, the old professor and his wife, who were evi- 
dently kindly disposed toward these well bred young Englishmen, 
nodded in friendliest fashion, and before coming back to Arthur the 
card had gone the round of the table, and the question of their re- 
spectability was settled. He was now on the point of producing an- 
other, but on second thoughts retrained, at least for the present. The 
pther card withheld, thin as writing-paper and having a gilt edge, 


LOVE AKB MTUAGE. 


was inscribed with the name ol a very grand personage indeed — no 
other than that ot a reigning prince, commending him to another, 
the ]iotentate ot these parts, and one of the richest subjects of the 
empire. 

Arthur feared to appear a snob in the eyes ot his ingenuous friends, 
and then as yet there were no more difficulties to smooth away. 
The rest of the meal passed ofl pleasantly as a family u inner-party. 
How wonderful what followed was in the eyes of the London-bred 
men! For two or three hours later they were out-of-doors, with the 
two gjrls for guides, tour happy lovers a Maying in the old ballads 
no more natural or pleased with each other’s company. A party of 
half a 6 core quitted the liotel together, but soon Arthur w^as leading 
the way under the elder sister’s wing, carrying her basket, gathering 
flowers for her, feeling on a sudden as if he were young indeed. It 
was the first lime he had ever gone a Maying with a beautiful girl, 
and the first time he had ever known a woman named Elizabeth. 
The name, as well as the simple white dress she wore, took his fancy. 
No fashion, no artificial graces, no lendings here. A sweet woman, 
a sweet name, a sweet gown. That was all. 

“ What made you come to this island?” asked Elizabeth when 
they sat down to rest. 

“ To wait for a mirage,” Arthur answered, with perfect serious- 
ness. Then he turned to her, putting in his turn the same direct 
question, 

“ What made you come to this island?’* 

Elizabeth’s answer was prompt as his own. “ To fly from a sor- 
row,” she replied, looking down at her flowers. ” Will the mirage 
come, do you think?” she added. 

“Will the sorrow go?” asked Arthur. “We must both have 
faith.” 

And as he glanced at the eyes blue as alkanet that had suddenly 
filled with tears, he would have given worlds to ask more. 

“ They say here that sooner or later all seekers after mirage are 
rewarded. But there are sorrows not to be charmed away, and mine 
is one,” she said. “ Let us not talk of it. I am happy at this mo- 
ment.” 

“ Who could help being happy?” again asked Arthur. 

The girl laughed bitterly. 

“ You speak as it there were no lost soujs in the world,” she said. 
“ Can happiness or et^en enjoyment be the portion of a burdened 
conscience?” 

“ Well,” Arthur replied, soothingly, “ thank Heaven, I have not 
a burdened conscience, and I am sure you have not either.” 

“Nor my little sister Flora,” answered Elizabeth, glancing be- 
hind her. 

“ Nor my brother Hervey,” echoed Arthur, also glancing round 
him. The other pair were elose behind, but quite oceupied with 
each other. Elizabeth’s mood now changed, and she said, almost 
in a merry vein, although there was significance in the -words, 

“ Then you shall watch over your brother, and I over my sister, 
to see that no harm comes to them.” 

“As if harm couhl happen to them,” laughed Arthur, lightly. 
Once more Elizabeth grew enigmatic and grave. 


10 


\ 

LOVE AND MIRAGE. 

then Elizabeth beckoned Flora to her side on the rustic bench. 
Hervey, tollowing Arthur’s example, flung himself on the turf, 

“ What have you been talking about?” asked Elizabeth, with the 
authority of an elder sister. 

‘‘^e began by particulars, and ended in generalities,” Hervey 
answered, quickly. “Is it right or wrong to be happy? That is 
the ethical problem we were deep in just now. And what have you 
been talking about?” he asked ot Elizabeth, smiling in his turn. 

“ We have riddled, as one Sphinx to another,” was Arthur’s re- 

piy- 

“ May we not hear the riddles?” asked Flora, simply. 

“ Hear, then, and be wise! One running after a mirage, one elud- 
ing a shadow — what will they find? Or let me put you in a miz- 
maze more hopeless still. A phantom brother, a dream-sister, a sus- 
pended sword.” 

“ We have been discussing the reciprocal advantage ot having 
brothers or sisters,” put in Elizabeth, with a sitrn of impatience. 

“ But why do we talk so much in a beautiful place? Let us go on. ” 


CHAPTER 111. 

THE WALK. 

Why, indeed? The place was too lovely for prattle. Thevery 
breatn ot praise seemed inappropriate. With deepest wisdom Nat- 
ure has surely ordained that the butterfly and the beetle plaj" their 
brilliant little parts in her nreat show without a word. Were the 
animal world as loquacious as the human, who could support the 
universal hubbub! They had been climbing all this time, ever a 
musical plash of waves in their ears, ever interlaced branches over- 
head, broad patches of azure visible here and there, but the sea and 
the sky shut out for the nonce. Under their feet velvety moss, about 
them many a gray old trunk, tapestried with bright leaves and blos- 
soms of creeping plants, the scarlet and the blue. By-and-by they 
came to a break^n the wooded foreland, and w-hat a change! The 
earth had here been cleft asunder, and from two dimpled hills that 
parted gently was seen the wide open sea, still and far off as in a 
picture, and of a pearliness lovelier than any color. 

But the little dell between the twin slopes — and it was but one of 
many hereabouts — who shall describe the ineffable charm of those 
grassy stairs, the dark runlet trickling down, the golden warmth 
above the cool, green shadows below? In the light of golden, 
lawny spaces beyond the opening glanced white-winged butterflies, 
as the wide expanse of sea and sky was broken by silvery sea-birds 
or the flashing sheen ot a ship at anchor. Wild with delight, the 
girls now sprung from one hill to another, holding by stem or branch 
as they peered down. 

“ Have no tear for us!” cried Elizabeth, as they stood on the gid- 
diest height. “We are both accustomed to precipices now, and this 
is nothing to what we will show you to-morrow.” She let Arthur 
liold her hand, however, as she slowly descended the steep sides of 
the tiny ravine. Flora also accepted Hervey’s help, and soon all four 
were safely landed at Ihe bottom. 


LOVE AKD MTBAGE. 11 

“Will you really show us more wouderful places to-morrow?” 
asked Arthur. 

“ It is the custom,” replied Elizabeth, ” that those who arrive on 
the island first should act the cicerone to new-comers. We will then 
next take you, with other acquaintances, to the Black Lake.” 

” An awful namel” 

“ But a sweet place! We can go by steamer and walk home, 
making a halt on the way.” 

” And after the Black Lake?” 

” There is the lighthouse, like no other ever built. Nothing here 
is to be matched anywhere in the world.” 

Arthur glanced at his beautiful companion, and thought that the 
remark applied at least to one of tbe beings on it. She cont inued in 
the happiest humor to enumerate the marvels to be seen. The sea, 
the forest, the glory of the day and the sense of freedom, seemed to 
intoxicate her. 

” Then there are the fisher maidens of the Blue Bay,” she went 
on, gayly. ‘‘ They wear wonderful dresses, of the fashion of a thou- 
sand years ago, and have the bluest eyes in Christendom!” 

Arthur did not say it, but tbe thought was in his mind that eyes 
blue enough were at hand. 

“ Ah!” he broke in, laughingly, when she had come to an end of 
her list, ” you do not read your guide book. You are an untrust- 
worthy cicerone! You have left out one of tbe chief sights of the 
island!” 

The four had been running hither and thither in search of butter- 
flies, making posies with the zest of school -children, and had joined 
in a summer song. When Arthur spoke, Elizabeth, kneeling on the 
ground, was letting Flora wreathe her hat with flowers. 

‘‘ And what is that?” asked tbe girl, without looking up. 

” You must know that a prince has his chateau and chase here?” 

She made no answer, and Arthur went on in the same careless, 
teasing voice. 

“An amiable and charming prince, too, if report speak truly. 
Have you never heard of him?” 

Elizabeth sprung from the ground, and Arthur saw that, tor some 
reason or other, the question had rutiled, nay, disconcerted both sis- 
ters. 

Flora crimsoned and fanned herself, pretending to be suddenly 
overcome with the heat. 

Elizabeth, while outwardly self -composed, could not conceal her 
discomposure. She did not change color, but scorn and anger 
flashed from her eyes as she made curt reply— 

” I have no love for princes.” 

Arthur smiled inwardly. In this fair girl had he found one of the 
would-be reconstiuctors of society on revolutionary principles, as 
numerous among the one sex as the other? 

The daringness and independence of character shown by Elizabeth 
in bagatelles seemed to warrant the idea. It tickled his fancy to 
think that here he had a beautiful convert to win over to the cause 
of order and expediency. 

” 1 hope you do not include all in 3^our category. You would not, 
for instance, think the worse of me for knowing this same prince?” 


LOVE AWE MILAGE. 


12 

Perfect mistress of lierself, Elizabeth still made no effort to con- 
ceal her scorn. It took entire possession ol her as she turned upon 
her companion quickly with anothei question. 

“ How much do you know of him?” she asked. 

Arthur laughed lightly. 

” To tell you plainest truth, nothing at all as yet. 1 merely put 
the question to probe the deptii of your democratic convictions,” he 
said, feeling now that he was on the wrong track. Elizabeth 
laughed also — the short, artificial laugh that seemed to hide a feeling 
of relief. 

“Indeed you are wrong there. 1 am no democrat in the sense 
that the word is generally used; one may have well-founded dislikes 
without being a theorist.” 

“lam thankful that you are no theorist,” Arthur said. 

“ And I am thankful that you do not keep bad company.” 

“ Oh!” he cried, with a shocked look. “ Can there be bad com- 
pany on this island?” He would not now say a single word about 
the letter in his pocket introductory from one foreign prince to an- 
other. 

“ So they say. But let us wait for the others to catch us up; we 
will then mase a halt at the forester’s, where we can have curds and 
whey.” Meantime Hervey and Flora had been absorbed in almost 
artless confabulation. The poor child seemed ready to cry of cha- 
grin after that little episode, and quite unable to resist taking this 
new fiiend into her confidence. 

“ Elizabeth feels things too strongly,” she said. “ She cannot 
help speaking out before strangers.” Then correcting herself, she 
added, apologetially, “Of course, coming from Professor Brandt, 
we do not consider you as strangers. But think no more of what 
she said just now.” 

“ Your sister has evidently a poor opinion of princes in general, 
and of this one in particular.” 

Flora made indifferent answer. How’ many other generous- 
minded girls were ready, like Elii^abeth, to castigate those who fell 
below their own lofty standards of morality, especially of the other 
sex. The little outburst of feeling seemed to him to mean no more 
than this. The prince in question was a worldling, a votary of 
pleasure; in fact he had obtained an unenviable reputation. He 
should tell Flora nothing about the introduction in Arthur’s pocket 
for the present. 

“ There are some things Elizabeth will never forget or forgive; 
she says we are not bound to pardon injustice. But of what use to 
eat out one’s heart without being able to obtain redress for wrongs?” 

“Ah hal” thought Hervey. “There is a question of family 
pride or interest here. This high personage has a&onted or injured 
one of Flora’s kindred, and refuses to make redress.” 

Then he ran over in his mind the various probabilities that might 
meet the case. Yes, there had been high pla}^ at cards; a brother, 
uncle, or cousin of the lovely Elizabeth, and her sweet, haughty 
apologist, had been ruined by enforced payment of a debt of honor. 

“ Some families are born to misfortune,” resumed Flora, as if 
such a summing up afforded comfort. “ Vire must bear what trials 


LOVE AKB MIRAGE. 13 

Heaven sees fit to send; only, of course, 1 cannot moralize to Eliza- 
beth, as she is an elder sister.” 

”1 do not think moralizing does anybody any good. Arthur 
preaches to me perpetually, and 1 am not one whit the wiser.” 

I'hereupon both laughed gayly. 

“Strange,” began Flora, “that you should feel toward your 
brother as 1 do toward Elizabeth. We love each other dearly, yet 
she seems to forget that there are only five years between us, and 
that 1 am no longer a child.” 

“If you have no more to complain of, you are fortunate, ” re- 
joined Hevvey. “ ISIot a day passes but 1 tell Arthur he must think 
me an idiot. We are the best possible friends for all that.” 

I’hus the pair prattled on while they continued their wonderful 
walk through the beechen forest above the sea. At first the way 
had led them through the coppice, woods, and tangled under- 
growth, now close to the edge of the bluff, now through the heart 
of a tiny comb, opening upon the glassy bay. Here might be seen 
those storm-beaten trees, such as were used by Trojan archers. Not 
a stem or branch but had been contorted by the wind into the strang- 
est forms — some of them might have been taken for kobolds, or 
other woodland folk, their quaint forms and eye-like cavities having 
a curiously human look. 

They had now reached higher open ground, where veteran trees 
of superb aspect had been allowed ample room in which to throw 
out their branches, each standing in open, lawny spaces, magisterial 
and alone. Nothing strikes the imagination more than these glor- 
ious relics of ages long passed awaj'^; for not a tree was here but, if 
transported to a modern park, would have dw^ayfed its neighbors as 
an African lion its menagerie-bred brethren. There they stood, and 
there, if left undisturbed, they would stand for ages, more proud, 
generous, superb, while generations of pygmies passed under their 
shadow, uttering feeble praises. 

“ There is the forester’s! We can now rest,” Flora cried. “ And 
see, Elizabeth is nodding and waving her hand to friends on every 
side. It is the universal meetin g- place. ” 


CHAPTER IV. 

A QUESTION. 

The forester lived a little way off, and it was to a wooden hut or 
pavilion near that holiday-makers and wayfarers betook themselves 
for curds and whey, or other homely regales. The wide world could 
not show a fairer halting-place. The sea that lay close behind was 
shut from view by the thickly interlaced branches of beech and pine, 
while from the open, sunny plateau on which stood the hut, broad- 
ened on either side a vast wilderness or natural park, vista on vista 
of glade, grove, and alle}’’, all now interpenetrated with the warm 
afternoon glow. On the smooth sward lay broad disks of gold, like 
yellowing leaves of water-lilies on an olive-green lake; but further 
off, among the closely serried forest-trees, sunshine played fantastic- 
ally as the coruscations of lightning, inky cloud and fiery flash, not 


14 - 


LOYE AKD MIRAGE. 


more strikingly contrasted than the dense shadows of the beeches 
111 us fitfully lighted up. Beyond all, cloud upon cloud, billow upon 
billow, stretched the remoter reaches ot the forest, no horizon mark- 
ing the separation ot world and sky in the dim, purple haze. 

The score and odd idlers lounging in front ot the pa^ ilion were, 
however, not intent on exquisite lights and shadows just then. In 
a minute or two Elizabeth, with charming grace, had introduced the 
two young Englishmen to this group of acquaintance and that, and 
the four were sipping milk, and less pastoral drinks, at a long table 
with a goodly fellowship. 

“ flow delightful are these garden taverns, this out-of-door inn- 
keeping!” said Arthur, as he scanned the inscription over the door 
of the little hostelry opposite. “ In England we have not the word, 
because we do not possess the thing. Ilere the inn is only the place 
to sleep in, and the garden or forest is the keeping-room, the closet, 
the hall. To escape from walls and artificial horizons, and live for 
a time the life of the bee, the bird, the butterfly— can anything be 
more enchanting?” 

“ That reminds me,” said Elizabeth, as she smilingly handed him 
the black bread and butter, ” this day week there is to be a dance in 
the forest. The fishermen, every summer, thus do honor to their 
guests, and rich and poor dance in company.” 

” Shall we be invited?” asked Arthur. 

‘‘Everyone is invited,” answered Elizabeth. “But here come 
more friends, and inore and more,” and she rose, and Flora also, to 
greet the new-comers, most of them what may be called wayside ac- 
quaintances — friends made, as the fashion is in these parts, at the 
mid-day ordinary, on the steamboat, or in forest resort. It is, more- 
over, no hard matter to find friends among those ot the same man- 
ner of thinking, and belonging to the same social srradeas ourselves. 
These kindly professors and pastors, with their families, belonged 
to one pattern, and the same might be said of the merchants, mili- 
tary men, and sprinkling of titled personages. What difference of 
rank there might be was kept out of sight during the holiday sea- 
son, just as school-boys fall out of rauK on the play-ground. 

On a sudden, however, there emerged from the depths of the for- 
est the tall figure of a man, who could evidently be no chance-niade 
acquaintance of the two girls; rather a kinsman, or at least it seemed, 
from the affectionate way in which he greeted them, an old friend. 
Sunburned, travel-stained, with his knapsack on his back, and a 
huge knob-sticK in one hand, he yet had a fine appearance. The 
well-shaped head, the lofty brow, the frank, honest expression, pro- 
claimed the honest gentleman in spite of his somewhat ragamuffin 
exterior. ► 

“ At last we meet again!” he said, throwing down knapsack and 
stick and glancing from one sister to the other, as he stood bare- 
headed before them. “At last!” 

“ After five years,” Elizabeth answered. “ Not so very long ago 
we heard of you in the heart of Africa.” 

“ Where, indeed, have I not been since we last saw each other, my 
little friend? Ami Flora has grown up! But ” — here he looked 
about him inquiringly — “there were three flowers when I went 
away. The eldest sister, the beautiful Stella, where is she?” 


LOVE ANL> MIRAGE. 


15 

Flora crimsoned with a childish look of pain, while her rosy lips 
quivered, and tears fell from her downcast eyes. Elizabeth lookeu 
up, rigid as a statue. The light that a momeht before had been in 
her face died out; speech did not come. 

The man darted a glance at the gowns of the two girls — they 
wore white, and white mtiy also be the symbol of mourning. Then 
looking unutterably aghast and woe- begone, he got out the words 
under his breath, “ She is dead?” 

The younger sister looked at the elder. Elizabeth w^as now con- 
strained to speak, 

“We are but two.” 

The look of misery in her face stopped all further questioning; 
nor could any private conversation be carried on in such a place and 
at such a time. She added, with a great effort at collectedness, 

“ Ask no more. We have come here to forget. ” 

“Stella dead? Merciful heavens!” ejaculated the man, under 
his breath; then gradually recovering himself, and seeing the humor 
in which Elizabeth was, he added, 

“ I wish I were going to stay on this island, since I find you here. 
But Imever stay anywhere, as5’^ou know.” 

“ Why in such a hurry just now?” asked Elizabeth, who had by 
this time regained self- composure. 

“ I am bound further northward, and only landed here a few 
hours ago to get a glimpse of the place. Our steamer lies at anchor 
in the bay.” 

Elizabeth now turned to introduce the stranger to her new friends, 
who had withdrawn a little. Mr. Venning and his brother would 
be glad, she felt sure, to shake hands with one of their oldest 
friends, and a naturalist not unknown to fame, attached, moreover, 
to a scientific expedition that must have been heard of in England. 
Carl Fleming, in his turn, must be pleased to find in these tourists 
former pupils of Professor Brandt, of Got! ingen. So she said pleas- 
ant things all round, and the business of coflee drinking went on 
more genially than before. 

“lam glad that we now know one another’s names,” Flora said, 
simply, to Her^ey, who had contrived to remain by her side. 
“ Is it not odd that they should be the same in your language as well 
as ours? We have Herve and Arthur, and you also have Elizabeth 
and Flora.” 

“ And Flora is as pretty in one tongue as another; though your 
surname calls you flower twice over,” Hervey laughingly rejoined. 

“ Yes,” Flora answered, merrily, “ I have my two names in one; 
but my sister’s, Elizabeth Flower — Elizabeth Blume. That sounds 
better in English, I think.” 

The company soon broke up into little knots, some to penetrate 
further into the recesses of the forest, others to explore Ihe clifl. A 
few, Arthur and the new-comer among them, lazily stretched their 
limbs on the mossy carpet. Here and there might be seen the straw 
hat and blue veil of some fair sketcher, while in the open space be- 
fore the lit lie chalet a dozen children joined hands in a merry round. 

“ I cannot tell you how shocked I was just now to learn that those 
beautiful girls had lost their elder sister,” said the naturalist, as he 
offered Arthur a cigar. “ I have known them from childhood 


16 


LOVE AND MILAGE. 


though my wandering life keeps us apart. The rose is left ” — here 
he glanced at the elder sister — “ and the sweet, shy bird ’’—here he 
looked toward Flora; “ but where now is she who was the star?” 

Arthur listened almost carelessly. Truth to tell, he was watching 
the exquisite picture that the pair of sisters made as they moved 
gracefully to and fro beside the swing. Swinging was a favorite 
pastime here, and they were giving delightful turns to two young- 
sters left out of the round. 

” Do you know how it happened?” added the other. 

Arthur explained that his acquaintance with the whole company 
dated from that morning only. 

” And I see no one else I can question. But why do I want to 
learn more? — 

“ ‘ The beautiful also must die !’ ” 

Then, as if forgetting that he was not alone, he repeated tlip won- 
derful little poem he had begun. At any other time Arthur would 
have heard Schiller’s verses delightedly, but he was in no mood for 
a theme just then. This breez}^ forest world which was yet the 
world of the sea; this unwonted freshness and freedom he was 
breathing, as purer, less trammeled air; this little life he was Iwing, 
twice islanded from the world of every day — all these filled him with 
the wild joy of living, rather than deep musings about death and 
late. 

” Sorry enough am I to quit such a place and such a company,” 
said Carl Fleming, rising as soon as he had finished his cigar. 
” Who knows? we may all meet here again on my return.” 

‘ ‘ I am in no hurry. ” 

‘ ‘ Happy Englishman ! enviable human being ! ’ ’ rejoined the other. 
“ But summer is of the shortest on this little island. In six weeks 
from to-day, if you are wise, you will pack your portmanteau and 
be off and away. Otherwise you may be frozen in for the winter.” 

Time as well as death may be a mere word in certain ears and at 
certain seasons. Arthur smiled, and his looks said what was in his 
thoughts. Six weeks seemed as far off just then as six years. 
Then his companion made brief adieux to the two girls and hast- 
ened away. The rest of the company also began to disperse in 
groups of twos and threes. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE WALK HOME. 

Somehow or other— none knew how it was — our little company 
returned in the order it had come; Arthur still keeping his place by 
Elizabeth’s side, Hervey in close attendance upon Flora. 

The girls had undertaken to show them a different way home, 
and what a way it was! Enchantment could go no further. 

They had suddenly quitted the upper forest Avorld, still bathed in 
golden light, and after a sharp descent of wooded pathway found 
themselves in the cool twilight below, the waves of the tideless sea 
rippling gently on one side, while on the other rose chalk banks 
gleaming silvery white against the pure heavens, and fringed with 
rare flowers, hanging-gardens by the sea. - 


LOVE AJq'D MIRAGE. 


17 

High above, ripe sunshine lingered about the coppice woods, but 
around them all was gray, pearly, silvery, only one blotch of deep 
orange breaking the wide expanse. Just opposite lay a fishing-brig 
at anchor, two ships instead of one, the twin imaged in the water 
more beautiful than the one solidly standing out againsi the sky; 
and as they walked along they saw colors no less bright close under 
their eyes, ruby-red and orange tangle, gleaming pebbles, patches of 
emerald- green sand, and how many other lovely things lying in the 
transparent water? Arthur’s attention, however, was at once 
arrested by a flower in full blow on the chalk bank. Starry bright 
it was, and exquisite in form, each perfect glome shining out from 
the background of white cliff and glossy, round, green leaves. 
There seemed a spirit in every one of these blossoms, and as you 
looked at them it seemed impossible to believe that some pensive 
sympathy with human tilings might not be here, some wistful com- 
muning with mortal joy or sorrow. Flawless each tiny, ivory cup 
as a gem, like one to another, as pearls on a string, yet a narrow ob- 
server could hardly help finding a certain individuality, an ap- 
proach, if not to consciousness, to that sentient being so closely allied 
to it. 

“ Will you get me some of my favorite flowers?” asked Eliza- 
beth, for they were all growing out of easy reach. 

“ J am so little skilled in flower-lore that I do not so much as 
know Its name,” Arthur replied. 

” The name tells you nothing, and this lovely flower has no legend 
that I know of. It is the only one 1 have ever had a real passion 
for; it was my sister’s favorite flower; 1 love it for her sake.” 

Arthur understood the look of dreamy sadness that now filled his 
companion’s eyes. It was not Flora she was thinking of— the care- 
less, sportive, living Flora — but that other sister he would never 
know — Stella, the beautiful, the dead. 

Meantime he was scaling the steep chalk banks, gathering a tuft 
of creamy buds, glossy leaves here, a tall peduncle there, Elizabeth 
watching him with pensive approval. The sight of this natural 
flower-bed, sprinkling of earth-stars before their brighter compeers 
shone forth, seemed to sadden her inexpressibly. She evidently 
forgot that this willing knight was a mere acquaintance of yester- 
day. 

“ Do not be ruthless. Leave plenty for others,” she said, beckon- 
ing him to come down, and awaiting the spoils with almost passion- 
ate impatience. Then when he was by her side, holding up both 
hands full of the pure white globes, delicately penciled with 
faintest violet, and shedding faint fragrance, she bent down and 
ecstatically and tearfully kissed them where they lay. 

What wonder that the polished London-bred man of the world had 
not a syllable at command. At last he did get out, in a low, subdued 
voice, 

“You loved her very dearly then, this sister?” 

Elizabeth, with tears still glistening on her eyelids, now motioned 
him to sit down, so that she might the more conveniently bestow the 
lovely things in her basket. As she did so, he watching her, she 
said, by way of answering his question, 

“ Dowe not all love best that which is most beautiful? And these 


18 


LOVE AND MIKAGE. 


flowers that. ] have never yet found growing anywhere else will al- 
ways be very dear to me-' very dear and very sad — because they will 
always remind me of a joy that is gone.” 

“ We must all look forward to the joy to come,” put in Arthur, 
not in the least knowing w^hat he meant, only knowing that the 
speech sounded appropriate under the ciicumstances. 

“There might be joy for me,” began the girl, earnestly; then 
breaking off suddenly, as if she felt that she was too forwardly con- 
fiding to a stranger, “ Some day, perhaps,” she added, “ 1 may tell 
you what 1 mean. That is to say, if we get to know each other 
better, and 1 can look upon you in the light of a friend.” 

“ Might I but be jmur friend!” cried Arthur. His manner was 
honest and hearty, without a touch of seutiment. Elizabeth made 
answer: “ Friendships are not made in a day.” She went on speak- 
ing, while she steadily caressed her flowers, pressing one dainty floret 
to her lips, another to her heart, breathing their delicate fragrance, 
fondling them as if they were living things: 

“ Vou may in time become my friend, and prove very serviceable 
to me.” She stopped short, smiling gravely as she perused his 
questioning face. “ How can 1 tell if the friendship 1 have to offer 
is worth the services 1 must ask in return?” 

“ Are you a brave man?” she suddenly asked, still studying his 
physiognomy. 

“ Try me,” was Arthur’s tart reply. 

Elizabeth saw the look of vexation that came into her com- 
panion’s face and made quick apology. 

“ Pray pardon me. 1 had no right to put such a question. I do 
not know how it is; 1 forget we are strangers to each other,” she 
said. 

“ Let me also ask your forgiveness,” Arthur replied, speaking 
with uncompromising sincerity. The strange, new situation in which 
he found himself seemed to demand it. “I did wrong to take 
affront just now. How can a man aver of himsell that he is brave 
till his courage has been put to proof? As yet mine lies dormant; 
alike physical and moral ordeals are to come. But” — here the 
young man’s voice gained in fervor, and Elizabeth realized that there 
might be a heroic side to this pleasant, polished man of the world — 
“ but let me tell you my theory about courage, no matter of what 
kind, lor it is a subject on which I have cogitated deeply. A crisis 
there comes to every human being, so at least 1 believe, when his 
heroism is tested, when he must go through the fire for once and 
lor all.” 

“ That 1 believe also,” put in Elizabeth. 

“We must store up our little stock of the heroic virtues against 
they are needed — for needed they surely will be, and that, perhaps, 
when we least expect it,” he went on. “ Thus it comes about that 
although. Heaven be praised, my existence up to the present time 
has been unusually smooth and comfortable, 1 am always on the 
lookout for a summons, like a fireman off duty.” 

“ iStrange,” mused Eflzabelh, “ such thoughts have often crossed 
my own mind. Once in every life-time human beings are brought 
lace to face with the awful aspect of destiny. 'Some are sore afraid, 
and others show almost a godlike resolution.” 


LOVE AKT) MIEAGE. 19 

Ob do aot let us soar to such comparisons! Is it not enough to 
be a man?” cried Arthur. 

” It should be; and just a man’s sang-froid, a man’s daring, I 
need now. It I might only find in you the triend, the brother, the 
champion of my dreams — ” 

She broke off again, taken aback by her own out- spokenness and 
abandon, and glanced at Flora, now daintily picking her way 
through the water, Hervey holding her hand as she stepped trom 
stone to stone, 

“ Flora and 1 are alone in the world, and you have no sisters. Per- 
haps that is why we are drawn with such triendliness one toward 
the other,” she said, in a halt-apologetic voice, although her com- 
. panion looked in no need ot apology. She added, with the same 
irresistible manner, half-joyfully confiding, halt-birdlike shy, ” And 
none of us know how these things are; we often find friendship and 
sympathy when we most need them.” 

Arthur was about to make appropriate answer when she quickly, 
and, as he thought, unkindly changed the subject. She could not, 
forget her flowers, and the recollections of mixed pain and delight 
they brought, while she was evidently anxious to discard personal 
talk. 

The thought in my own mind now must have struck you,” she 
said. ” Is it not strange that while we cling passionately to certain 
aspects and certain ineffably lovely creations ot nature, they have 
nothing to do with us, and remain outside our poor little life of 
clouds and sunshine? The beautiful, visible world is not made tor 
us. Think of this island. I have heard my parents say that, not so 
very many years ago, never a stranger was seen in the fairy spot 
where we now are. Yet the water, crystal clear, flowed then as now, 
showing the golden flowers of the sea; these hanging-gardens made 
the air fragrant; and there was the dory ot the wood^s above.” 

” But is it not well for our peace ot mind that it should be so?” 
asked Arthur. “ Were the natural world in perpetual sympathy 
with us, nature, a mirror of our joys gnd sorrows, who could sup- 
port such dual existence? The weight of twofold memory, the real 
and the reflected, would crush us.” 

“You are right. Why must we be the slaves of one?” cried 
Elizabeth. 

Then, with a sudden impulse, as if the sight of the flowers, and 
the associations they called up, were becoming unbearable, she 
■emptied her basket. One by one she now took out each tall stem, 
with its twin leaves of deep green, and blossom of moony white, and 
laid them tenderly in a tiny hollow close by, memories in their 
gravel 

“ If we ever become friends,” she said, “ I will tell you why the 
sight of these flowers is insupportable to me. Now let us join the 
others, and all hasten home.” 

There was no hastening, however; why should there be, when the 
evening became more delicious every moment? Elizabeth and her 
companion still kept close to the cliffs, now thridding lovely little 
green ways cut in the forest, that here dipped to the water’s edge, 
Ijow skirting the chalk banks, fragrant with melilot and oiigome. 


20 LOVE AND MTRAOE. 

Htrvey and Flora, only removed from them by an arm’s-breadth or 
two, remamed on the shore. 

The girl, playfully eager, was searching for amber. It was often 
found here, she said, and kept the wearer from wizardry and the evil 
eye. 

“ You surely do not believe in such things?” laughed Hervey. 

” Only when 1 am on this island,” Flora answered, with perfect 
gravity. ‘‘ It is an enchanted place, as you will discover if you stay 
here long enough. You may throw aside your talisman when you 
reach the opposite coast.” 

” But if the sorcery is of an agreeable kind, better submit to the 
spell,” Plervey said, still mocking and ironic. 

” 1 could tell you a story that 1 think would make you believe in 
evil influences beyond mortal ken,” Flora answered, in a low, timid, 
yet eager voice. ‘‘ Can it be otherwise explained how souls beauti- 
ful as those of angels become dark and evil? But I must not talk to 
you in this way; Elizabeth would be angry.” 

“ Your sister has evidently taken kindly to my brother. She sees 
that we are not adventurers anyhow,” pleaded Hervey, in an ag- 
grieved tone. 

“ Elizabeth is older than I am. I must be guided by her in every- 
thing,” Flora made reply, and could not be brought to talk of amber 
or angelic souls any more. The four were now overtaken by friends 
and acquaintances, with whom they lingered on the strand till after 
sunset. A sunset it hardly seemed, rather a sunrising, so pure and 
bright the heavens, so intense the rosy glow gradually spreading 
over sea and sky. The whole visible world seemed turned into a 
globe of ruby, and when the ruby faded, sapphire was there instead, 
waves and skies melted into one. 

It was still early when the brothers reached their hotel, and 
Arthur, alone in his bedchamber, took out his watch, smiling curi- 
ously as he wound it up. 

Just twelve hours were flown since he last glanced at the familiar 
dial, and in the interval he had fallen in love. 


CHAPTER VI. 

NO whither! 

Love as well as sorrow may be a thing to shun; and next morning 
Arthur Venning was hurrying with what speed he could command 
from 1 he scene of yesterday’s glamour. 

Capricious as lover’s inood seemed also the climate of this 
island; yesterday a fairy bower lapped by southern seas, on the 
morrow a dreary place. Vague sounds of storm had disturbed 
Arthur during the night, and when he drew aside his curtain he saw 
the lime-branches tossed against the blurred pane, and heard the 
waves breaking angrily against the shore. No pleasure skiff could 
put out to sea in such a storm, and were the day dawning goldenly, 
all the same he must be ofl: and away. In the humor he now was, 
made up of feverish disturbance of sweetest kind, chains could 
hardly have bound him, fetters would have been forced somehow. 


LOVE Ai?T) MIRAGE. 


21 


The need of solitude and escape was imperative. He must separate 
liimself from these new, bewildering impressions, to find out if they 
were anything deeper or more lasting. 

So, no word said, no warning given— thus unceremoniously the 
brothers treated each other always — he was out of the house betimes, 
bound with all dispatch, no whither. 

It is not very easy to escape either foes or fascinations in an island 
without railroads, where roads are few and like the paths of the sea 
— not to be trusted in bad weather. A mackintosh and umbrella are 
all very well, but avail little when rain is tumbling down in fits, and 
winds blow from the four corners of the globe. If there was only a 
railway, only a town, only some attainable dry place or other within 
reach! ejaculated Arthur Yenning. What should he do with him- 
self in such a hurricane, such a deluge, sighed the unfortunate lover, 
almost ready to anathematize the lucky stars he had blessed a few 
hours before. 

Plodding on thus uncomfortably, with his sketch-book under his 
arm, he had reached the top of the village street when a rumbling 
sound and an unwieldy vehicle, shaped like an old-fashioned berlin, 
came to divert his thoughts; and in a twinkling this tumble-down 
conveyance, which, as he saw by the somewhat pompous insignia, 
carried his Imperial Majesty’s mails, occurred to him as a solution 
of the problem'. Here was the post ready to carry him, if not to a 
desirable place, certainly away from the spot in which he then was. 
Without a second thought he stopped the post-boy, and took a seat 
inside of the dingy old stage-coach, being better than the top under 
certain circumstances, he said to himself, as he shut out the wind 
and the rain. 

He would have been alone, but for one heavy passenger of his 
own sex who was fast asleep in a corner. Arthur took possession 
of the other, and comfortably disposing of himselt, began to wonder 
what he should do next. The post would stop somewhere or other. 
Anything deserving the name of a town the island did not possess, 
and a village hostelry, with a smoky parlor, and not so much as a 
newspaper to be had, offered lew attractions. Well, mused Arthur 
Venning, as he also closed his eyes for a doze, anyhow I have 
brought my sketch-book and moist colors, and I may find a rustic 
beauty to sit for me. 

He nodded and nodded, while the outlandish ramshackle vehicle 
toiled up hill and down hill, through the wind and the rain, till it 
was brought to a standstill with a jerk that rudely aroused both 
passengers. 

“ What place is this?” asked Arthur of his fellow- traveler. 

” No place at all,” was the reply; ” but the horses are changed 
here. Are you going to the Ferry?” he asked. 

‘‘In the name of all the saints, no!” cried Arthur, aghast. He 
had left tlie Ferry just two days ago. Was there only one road, then, 
in this island? Must he go backward or tor ward, cross the narrow 
strip of sea dividing him from shops, railways, and civilization, or 
return crestfallen whither he had come? 

‘‘ Then,” politely replied the stranger, “ if you are not going to 
the Ferry, you are going to the Residency, of course, and there is 
the other coach waiting to take you.” 


LOVE AKB MIRAGE. 


A bright thought now flashed across his mind. Yes, there was 
certainly one dryT spot in this deluged land. Not a church, not an 
interior* not a museum could this luckless island boast of, in which 
a dilettante might profitably spend a wet morning, so he had heard. 
But this Schloss was also a covered place. It contained, so at least 
tolks said, some pictures and works of art worth looking at, which 
travelers were permitted to see. In fine, it offered exactly the pas- 
time he wanted, and if the weather cleared up he should have a 
pleasant journey home in the evening. That little missive introduc- 
tory safely stowed away in his pocket, Arthur, of course, determined 
to withhold. To present himself oefore a grand personage on a wet 
day was out of the question. An umbrella and aristocratic acquaint- 
ances are incompatible; but he might fairly present himself at the 
doors as an English artist, craving leave to see his serene highness’s 
collections. Anyhow, on the arrival of the stage-coach at its desti- 
nation, he would breakfast, or rather dine— the dinner in these parts 
taking place at midday— undergo a process of drying and brushing, 
and then proceed on foot to the palace. The weather did not im- 
prove, but Arthur’s spirits rose when the tumble-down old carriage 
stopped before a well-built inn, and a glance showed him that all, 
the pleasant possibilities he had just now entertained would be 
realized. An hour later he was hastening across the park, sketch- 
book under his arm. If only the sky would clear, and the necessary 
permission be granted, he might make a charming study here, he 
thought. The views on all sides were said to be magnificent, the 
palace itself a gem of modern art; but under a leaden sky, and 
through a mist of rain, these things could only be guessed at. 

Arthur had received glowing accounts of the prince’s gracious- 
ness to art loving strangers, but was hardly prepared for the recep- 
tion accorded him; for no sooner were the words “ an English 
artist ” out of his mouth, than, without waiting to hear more, tlie 
elderly woman who opened the door ushered him in, and beckon- 
ing him to follow, led the way upstairs. 

He noticed with a little surprise that it was a side'staircase she now 
took, and not the nobly proportioned flight of marble steps royally 
carpeted that evidently led to the state apartments. His conductress 
had motioned him to wear a pair of felt over-shoes lying on the thresh- 
old, so that it could be no precautionary measure on her part, lie 
supposed he should see the grand entrance afterward, and followed 
without a word. What was his astonishment when the woman, still 
chary of her words, opening the door of a small but beautiful room, 
evidently a woman’s room, handed him a chair and went away! 
His first impulse was to go after her and ask if she had made a mis- 
take, explaining that he was there by no appointment. On second 
thoughts the matter seemed to have little mystery about it. He but 
waited tor an informal permission to see the pictures; that was all. 
Five minutes passed, during which he surveyed the room, taking in 
every artistic feature with his quick, well-trained eye. The charm- 
ing pictures on the wall, the choice, modern furniture, the veriest 
bagatelle, were works of art, the superlatively bound books all testi- 
fied to the elegant taste of their possessor. What immediately riveted 
his attention, however, were two portraits of a beautiful and sumpt- 
uous woman, which lay unframed, as though hardly finished, on 


LOVE AND MIKAGE. 


2 !) 

two easels. Each picture was evidently the work of a diiferent 
hand, and never surely could portrait-painter have had a harder or 
more delicious task. 

Arthur was standing betore the two canvases spell-bound, when, 
without any warning, the door opened and a lady came in. He saw 
at a glance that she was the sitter; but how much more beautiful! 
She was dressed in black, and as she moved toward him he fell 
back, hashed and awe-struck by the pathos in her face. 

This glorious creature might have sat to-day for a Mater Dolorosa, 
jmt the simple sable garment sire now wore became her no less than 
the queenly gems and dazzling textures with which she was bedight 
in both pictures; perhaps even better. There was more here of the 
star than the queen, the quiet, subdued, yet overmastering loveliness 
that needs no mundane lendings, that enforces consenting homage 
because it is itself. 

“ You are an English portrait-painter,” she said, removing the 
two pictures from the easel and seating herself opposite to it. 
“ Pray begin the sitting at once.” 

Arthur now realized his dilemma. He was evidently mistaken for 
the third artist invited to enter the lists. A German, possibly a 
French hand had failed to carry off the palm. Some countryman 
of his own was to compete in his turn. There was not a minute for 
deliberation; he unhesitatingly accepted the challenge. After all, 
he said to himself, explanation could not be very difficult. A paint- 
er, not unskilled in portraiture, he had been accidentally asked to 
take this lady’s portrait. What should he do but accept, leaving 
any mystery to be cleared up afterward? Such a misinterpretation 
of the true state of affairs, under the circumstances, could but meet 
with indulgence. And who knew He might now succeed, as he 
had often done before, in achieving, no chef d'oBum'e certainly, but a 
sterling likeness. That was most likely the one thing needed, and 
was within his capabilities. 

He set to work in business-like fashion, and having prepared his 
colors, turned expectantly to the sitter. 

“ Have you any instructions to give me?” he asked, not in the 
least knowing how to address her. 

” None whatever,” was the almost indifferent reply, “ except that 
I wish to be taken in this plain black gown as I am.” 

Arthur bowed, mutely acquiescent, and leaning back in his chair 
took that long, long look, only permissible under precisely such cir- 
cumstances. And as he gazed and gazed, the same feeling of awe 
and perplexity came over him, dominating mere admiration. Who 
could this rare creature be, and what was the secret of the more than 
sorrow looking out of her clear eyes? 

Hardly the mistress of a proud house, he said, or even a member 
of it, otherwise would she stay there unattended and alone? He 
settled the question in his own mind by saying that she certainly 
belonged to" the prince’s family, but was, perhaps, a humble kins- 
woman, one by whom trouble had come upon the rest. 

Not the burden of a secret grief only seemed to weigh her down. 

Something more, also, he read as he studied that calm, pensive 
face. From those beautiful eyes looked forth no shy, girlish ques- 


24 


LOVE AND MIRAGE. 


tioninff of life and destiny, but a woman’s collectedness and passive 
resignation. 

The mystery of existence had been solved for her. 

Of the future she had neither supreme joy nor sorrow to ask. No 
maiden, but a wife was here. Whose, it behooved him not to ask. 


CHAPTER VII. 

A CHARGE. 

The pose was settled, and the task fairly entered upon, when a 
strange sensation came over Arthur, for a moment hindering the 
facile pencil, just before used with so mnoh aplomb. Again and 
again he looked at his beautiful sitter, and each glance but height- 
ened the sudden conviction that had flashed across his mind. He 
must have seen this untorgettable face before. Those clear eyes, so 
lovely and so pathetic, did not now meet his own for the flrst time. 
Yes, the matter was past doubt. At some period or other, and in a 
place indistinct enough, but certainly not dreamland, they had met 
before. 

The revelation embarrassed him not a little, for any former ac- 
quaintance, however slight, must sooner or later force him to drop 
the mask, and he felt now some compunction at having assumed it. 
Yet if he should succeed, his triumph would need no palinode. 

Up to this time the sitter had only opened her lips to assent to his 
choice of position and other technical arrangements. When he 
paused, she rose and inspected the sketch. 

“You have certainly caught the likeness,” she said, speaKing in 
the same indifferent tone, as it her beauty were no more a thing to 
glory in than the black dn^ss she wore; “and that is what these 
two miss,” she added, glancing at the rejected canvases. 

“ The simpler a portrait is, the better to my thinking,” Arthur re- 
plied. “ What we want is not a picture, but a personality, unmis- 
takable, stamped with character and originality as the living face 
itself.” 

“ The life should be there,” answered the lady. Then changing 
the subject abruptly, she said, with affected carelessness, as it wish- 
ing to conceal her motive, “ You come from England. Tell me one 
thing: can a woman earn her bread there without difficulty V” 

“ Under certain circumstances, yes.” 

“ What circumstances?” The question was put eagerly. 

“ A livelihood there depends, as I presume it does all over the 
world, on aptitude. A clever woman, I suppose, can earn much 
more than her bread anywhere.” 

“ What do you call cleverness?” 

“ Well,” Arthur said, with some diflidence, “ I call it the faculty 
of giving out. Many people have a respectable amount of knowl- 
edge, but general dullness of parts makes it useless to them.” 

Her interlocutor seemed to reflect. 

“lam thinking,” she said, pensively, “ of common people and 
common cases. Are there more children than teachers in your coun- 
try; more sick than there are nurses to look after them?” 


LOYE AND MIRAGE. 


25 

“ I fear not; but there is room for a few paragons even in that line. 
Can I help you with regard to any special protegee?” he asked. 

Instead of an answer came a question, put in the simplest, most 
natural way in the world. 

“ What is your name?” she asked, looking straight at him. 

Concealment was no longer possible. Arthur started to his feet, 
positively blushing with contrition and dismay. 

“ Pray pardon me,” he began, regaining self-possession as quickly 
as he had lost it. “1 came here to-day in the capacity of a mere 
tourist, not of a portrait-painter ; but when I saw that I was mis- 
taken for the professional artist evidently expected, 1 rashly hazarded 
the part; and I can handle the brush, as you see.” 

The ingenuous speech and honest smile accompanying it seemed 
in some degree to disarm the lady’s displeasure; still there was ex- 
cessive hauteur in her manner, and reproach in her astounded look. 

‘‘ You are an utter stranger here?” she asked. 

** Entirely so, a mere holiday excursionist, come to this island for 
a few weeks’ pleasure. It is true 1 bear a letter introducing me to 
the prince, but I had no intention of presenting it to-day. Allow 
me to see him, to explain — ” 

“ The prince is absent,” she said, coldly. Then, after a pause, 
during which she seemed to ponder on what was best to be done, she 
looked at him as if to read him through and through, and made slow 
reply: 

” You are an Englishman, and they say an Englishman’s word is 
worth something. Give me yours that not a syllable shall ever pass 
your lips concerning this interview.” 

“ Certainly,” Arthur said. 

‘ ‘ They say that your countrymen are curt, but why may not one 
word suifice? 1 will tiust you.” 

” 1 hope so,” was the retort, again direct to bluntness; then, with 
a sudden glow of eajrerness, he askedy 

” Will you not permit me to finish the sketch?” 

Once more the lady reflected. Y’es and no were written by turns 
in that ^ pale, proud" face; she seemed to wish for the picture, but 
was evidently anxious to be rid of his company. “ I think it will 
be better to leave off now,” she said, at last, with some show of re- 
luctance. ” 1 will, however, keep the drawing, and you shall finish 
it at some future time, it circumstances permit.” 

Arthur looked delighted, and at once proffered a visiting-card. It 
was, however, merely glanced at and returned to him. 

“ English travelers are not so frequent here that there would be 
any difficulty in finding you,” she said, smiling faintly. ” But one 
word more before you go.” She looked on the ground, paused ir- 
resolute, then, with strange hesitancy, got out the words, ” This per- 
son— this protegee — of whom I spoke just now, has no friends in 
England. Are the friendless flouted there as elsewhere?” 

Arthur once more had recourse to his card-case. ‘‘Surely not, 
but pray let me leave my English address,” he urged, feeling at that 
moment as if he could canvass every educational and philanthropic 
body in London on behalf of this adorable patroness. 

‘‘ On my return you can write to me. 1 shall be proud to serve 
your friend; but,” he added, with sudden light breaking on him, 


26 LOVT^ AKT) MTRAOtK. 

“ 1 have a letter introducing me to the prince. We may meet here 
again.” 

A second time the lady became rigid as a statue. 

” The prince is absent, and I am here for a few days only,” she 
answered, with excessive hauteur. Arthur, chilled into silence, be- 
gan putting his brushes together without much alacrity, his incom- 
parable sitteiTingering as if to get out one unwilling word more. At 
last she said, when he stood on. the threshold ready to go, 

“ I thank you, and 1 rely upon you. Kemember that.” 

The same woman-servant was there to conduct him down-stairs. 
He could only bow and hurry away, certainly in need ot no more 
distraction yet awhile. 

The lovely vision of Elizabeth was for the nonce effaced from his 
mind as completely as the most desperate lover could desire. In- 
stead of a girlish figure in white, ineffably blue eyes speaking mys- 
tery, soft brown hair fringing a candid brow, and delicious glances 
of appeal, there floated before his inner vision an image lovely, pas- 
sionless, pathetic, as the doomed heroine of old Greek tragedy. No 
life in those clear eyes but the life that was gone. No story 
written on that pale, beautiful face but of wrongs past telling 
and supreme endurance under misfortune. The more Arthur dwelt 
on this vision the more it enthralled and perplexed him. Who might 
this rare lady be? 

He had hardly quitted the precinctsof the chateau when the clouds 
parted, the sun gleamed forth, and the rain, no longer a steady vol- 
ume of water, became a mere sprinkling of crystal dew-drops on 
golden leaves. To his great astonishment he found that it was al- 
ready three ot the clock. Little time to spare if he would return 
from whence he had come that day. As he paused irresolute 
whether to go or stay, no wonder a smile rose to his lips.. Could he 
choose but laugh half ironical, half self-depreciatory, at the pecca- 
dillo in which he now found himself? To go back was to fly toward 
certain peril; to stay was to run hazards perhaps more dangerous 
still. Fortunately the island was too small to hold a third snare, 
soliloquized the young man almost cynically. He made up his mind 
to return. Hervey would expect him, and he had not so much as 
brought a pair of slippers. We may lose our hearts, but nobody can 
afford to lose his knapsack, again moralized Arthur, trying to make 
merry at his own expense. So he did not attempt to get an idea of 
the place, but hiring a carriage, or rather something that went by 
that name, drove straight back to the bower of roses above the bay. 
The country through which he passed was very uncommon, but 
Arthur willfully refused to see it. What could have induced him 
to come to this remote spot? he mused; much better to eschew ro- 
mance, do the regular Swiss round, flirt with halt a dozen conventional 
beauties, as he had often done, returning to his London life not a 
whit the wiser or the .worse. But these lovely, confidential Eliza- 
beths, these beautiful, mysterious goddesses in black, what would 
come of it all? No good, he felt sure, as he somewhat nrosaically 
and ill-temperedly reviewed the events of the last forty-eight hours, 
summing up with the thought that it was hardly worth while com- 
ing so far in order to make a fool of himself, the thing might have 
been done so much nearer home. 


LOVE AKD MIEAGE. 


27 

^ The sky was now brilliant, and the charming landscape glowed 
like a bit of mosaic. As the unshapely carry-all crawled along, 
Arthur, though persistently unappreciative and ill-humored, could 
but take in an enchanting prospect here and there. Am I in Italy? 
he asked himself, as he caught sight of a tiny inland sea of purest 
azure, shut in by richest foliage, sapphire and emerald dazzlingly 
bright, or little creeks, crystal clear, winding in and out, in which 
alike cloud-land and the bright world below were perfectly mir- 
rored. Ever}'' where golden corn and wild-flowers, scarlet and blue, 
everywhere silence and solitude, save for companies of sea-ravens 
wheeling overhead. 

The journey was made slowly, with many a halt by the way, and 
it was nightfall ere the traveler reached the top of the little rose-bor- 
dered street sloping toward the shore. The place, however, was all 
astir, and Arthur saw with astonishment gay Chinese lanterns hang- 
ing from every window, flags flying, bands of music on the march, 
and every soul on the alert. 


CHAPTER -Vlll. 

A COMPACT. 

“ You shall tell me what you have been doing with yourself after- 
ward; let us go now and see the boats coming in,” cried Hervey, 
meeting him in the middle of the village. ” You have lost the fish- 
ermen’s regatta, but you will see the little procession on the water. 
And from their garden,” he added, exuberantly. 

He put his arm wiihin the other’s, and led the reluctant Arthur 
into the most romantic little garden in the world, also lightecrup 
with globes of ruby-red and deep orange in honor of the occasion. 
It was one of those hanging-gardens by the sea, of which there were 
many here; below it Ihe lime-trees and rose-beds, grassy banks run- 
ning sheer into the water. A light palisade divided plot and steep 
bank, while on each side of the house were bowers for the use of the 
guests. This bit of poetry was, translated into plain prose, a lodg- 
ing-iiouse, kept by a fisherman and his wife, of such good repute 
that they never had an empty chamber during J uly and August. 
These worthy folks and their children were now enjoying this ani- 
mated scene with the rest of the company. — four or five families in 
all — who slept indoors certainly, but made parlors of the little sum- 
mer-houses allotted to them in the garden. 

‘‘ I am delighted that you have come back in time,” said Eliza- 
beth, advancing toward Arthur with charming gayety. ” Is it not 
a fairy sight?” she added, pointing to the little flotilla of illuminated 
boats on the water, ” and will it not furnish a bright recollection of 
our island?” 

It is wonderful how a sense of festivity exhilarates the mind as 
yet unsurfeiled by handsomer show^s! A few colored lights on the 
water, a band or two of rustic musicians, flags flying, and children 
dressed in white and crowned with garlands; how little was here, 
yet more than enough to put the company into a sportive mood. 
Elizabeth was no more radiant than the rest. One and all had eft" 
^eie^ heart aftd §oul into the spirit of the eccasiori, 


LOVE A NO MIRACtE. 


28 

“We live here,” Elizabeth went on, when Arthur had greeted 
acquaintances of yesterday’s making on both sides, “and only go 
to the hotel to dine. But where have you been? What made you 
run away on this day of all others?” 

“lam sure 1 cannot tell. 1 went because 1 could not stay where 
1 was, 1 suppose.” 

Elizabeth turned to him sharply. 

“ And what makes you ever enigmatic?” 

“May you not be my exemplar? You were riddling all yester- 
day.” 

She seemed ruffled. 

“ We cannot intrust the story of our lives to strangers,” she said. 

“ And feelings must ever be more charily dealt with than facts,” 
retorted Arthur. 

“Ah!” cried Elizabeth, looking honestly aggrieved now. “ No- 
body here could intentionally have hurt your feelings, 1 am sure.” 

“lam sure of it also. But it is useless to reason with a tired, 
hungry, and ill-tempered man.” 

“Will jou be in a better temper to-morrow?” asked Elizabeth, 
much as it she were feelingly sympathetic about a toothache. His 
captious mood seemed to dampen her high spirits and make her a lit- 
tle’ mistrustful. 

“ What is to happen to-morrow?” he asked. 

“We have all made up our minds to visit the light-house, provid- 
ed the weather is fair. The excursion has to be made by sea.” 

“All? Why must it be all?” retorted Arthur, glancing round, 
not with disdain, but certainly impatience. His looks said that esti- 
mable as he found these worthy pastors and professors and their 
families, he should infinitely prefer a fellowship of four. 

“ Why, indeed?” laughed Elizabeth, gayly. “ Because the little 
steamer is not safe unless well ballasted. We pack ourselves in as 
closely as we can to steady it.” 

Arthur made a comic grimace. 

“ A delectable place, this island of yours, if an hour or two’s sail 
is fraught with imminent peril of life and limb.” 

“ Rare delights are worth rare hazards,” answered Elizabeth, sen- 
tentiously. 

“ 1 will cheerfully embark with you in a ship that has no bottom 
at all, on one condition.” 

“ What may your condition be?” 

“ 1 am dying to know why you want a brother.” 

A shadow, but a shadow only, clouded Elizabeth’s gaysomemood. 

“ We will make a bargain, then. You shall tell me what you 
mean by coming here to wait for a mirage, and 1 will explain — ” 

“ The sorrow you fly from?” Arthur put in. 

“ Nay,” said Elizabeth, gently and pensively. “ 1 cannot prom- 
ise so much.” 

“ Make clear at least one of your mysteries. You hinted at a 
duel.” 

“ Y^ou ask too much. We were strangers to each other two days 
ago.” 

“ Who need dogsear an almanac except the bill-discounter? 


LOVE AND MILAGE. 29 

Friendships and peaches ma}’" ripen in a day— it depends upon the 
kind ot day, ot course.” 

” But if, indeed. Time counts for little in the making of our 
friends, the fitness of things must be taken into consideration,” said 
Elizabeth, demurely. ‘‘We are alone in the world. Flora and 1. 'We 
must be very circumspect.” 

” Well,” Arthur resumed, pleasantly, “ you shall be as circum- 
spect as you please to-morrow. You shall flout your faithful hench- 
man, and fence yourself round with dragonish duennas. But I 
really will go to the light-house and help me to keep the ship steady.” 

Just then a sudden blaze of fireworks diverted their attention, ac- 
quaintances came up, and the remainder of the evening was enjoyed 
in company. And not till near midnight the rose-garden was hushed, 
save for the ripple of the waves, while till a later hour still the sound 
of music and singing disturbed the village. 

Arthur could not sleep; he was in one of those moods when self- 
questioning was all the more tormenting because it seemed unneces- 
sary. Whj^ should he take any thought for a morrow which was 
pretty sure to be a pleasant echo ot to-day? Why need he disquiet 
himself at having two beautiful images before his mind instead of 
one? The lovely Elizabeth might stay ‘‘ a cherished visitant,” the 
sweet and stately vision without a name would probably never be 
anytning more. He dared not entertain tfie hope of seeing that in- 
comparable lady in the black dress again. Those deep, pathetic eyes 
that seemed to read the secret ot destiny had, without doubt, ques- 
tioned his own for the first and last time. He had lived through a 
brief, distracting experience that must stand apart from the ordinary 
occurrences of life. 

But Elizabeth? 

Could not his introspections stop short here? How could harm 
come to him through this sweet girl? Why should he not, in all 
trustfulness and security, allow himself to drift into love and mar- 
riage like others ? Yet "he reasoned, this young man, half aesthetic, 
half worldling, not without a touch of romance in his disposition, 
and certainly not without a touch ot expediency, the thing 1 have de- 
sired is not an unmixed good. Love and wedlock, however 
charming, are disturbing influences. A man engaged heart and 
soul in intellectual work, and possessing some share of ambition, is 
best alone. Alike the paragon ot spirit and attractiveness, who ab- 
sorbs him, and the wrongheaded beauty, who is as a millstone round 
his neck, are hinderances to his mental expansion and highest intel- 
lectual aims. Measles in the nursery and chef d'ceuvre in the atelier 
are incompatible. No, h.e would revel in ail the deliciousness this 
island had to offer him, and turn his back upon it when the time 
came, as one who has seen a mirage and nothing more. 

‘‘ An idea strikes me,” he said to Hervey next morning, as they 
took their coffee in the hotel garden; ‘‘ 'svhy not stay at the light- 
house for a few days?” 

Hervey looked blank. 

‘‘We are very well here.” 

” But we ought to see something of the island.” 

‘‘ That will not take us very long,” the younger brother replied, 
Still lethargic. 


30 


LOVE AND MIRAGE. 


“lam afraid, if 1 leave you alone here, you will be making a fool 
of 5 ’^ouiselt about that pretty FloiA.” 

“ 'Well,” Hervey retorted, bearishly, “ 1 suppose making a fool of 
one’s self, as you call it, is no disgrace,” 

“We know absolutely nothing of these girls, charming as they 
are— their social position, family history, and so forth,” Arthur said, 
affecting his gravest, worldliest manner. 

“ 1 do not mean to be a prig when 1 take to myself a wife, so ex- 
pect no great things of me in that line,” Hervey answered, still 
ruffled and disrespectful. 

“ 1 tell you what it is: we had better take the next steamer, and 
be off and away. I do not relish our position. I do not, indeed.” 

“You had better get ready to go to the light-house,” Hervey an- 
swered, swallowing the remainder of his coffee. Then both brothers 
had a hearty laugh, and began to make their preparations, Arthur 
adhering to his first intention. He should stay away a week at least. 

“ I wish you joy of it,” was all Hervey remarked. 


CHAPTER IX. 

SWEET TALKS OF TW'O. 

There was no harbor on this side of the island, so that passen- 
gers had to be embarked in small boats, putting off straight from 
the shore. As Arthur and his companions took their places in one 
of these, they saw the empty steamer lying at anchor, swaying to 
and fro like a buoy. Elizabeth had certainly not exagger^ated the 
business of ballasting. No toy boat could look less seaworthy than 
the frail craft in wfflich some scores of pleasure-seekers were so gay- 
ly about to adventure themselves. As, however, one b}'^ one, the 
boats discharged their burden, the tiny steamer grew gradually 
steadier, and wfflen at last it could hold no more, there seemed noth- 
ing left to be desired. Hardly a spice of danger to tickle the palates 
of the enterprising! although, if report spoke truly, these little 
cruises, whether made by steam or sail, could never be very safe. 

The currents were treacherous, squalls were apt to rise without 
w’^arning, and the best steamers, necessarily, were placed at the dis- 
posal of tour ists. 

Smooth seas, clear heavens, and gay company seen: to bring se- 
curity, and soon not a soul on board paid further heed to the crazy 
structure cleaving the bright waves so unconcernedly. The day was 
flawless, yet without the dazzling splendor of lower zones. Warn:, 
tender, suffused with pearly light,. a lovely sublunar sphere seemed 
this every-day world of July. In the transparent atmosphere all 
things stood out clear against the pale, azure heavens — cliffs shining 
white, cresting forests, sails of distant shallops, but wuth softly 
graduated light and shadow’s, and quiet, dove-like harmonies. 

Arthur, sketch-book in hand, persistently avoided an animated 
group within ear-shot. He heard the voices of Flora and Hervey in 
merry persiflage, mingled with Elizabeth’s graver tones. One or two 
friends had joined them, and from a certain retirement in the elder 
gjsler’s mauner^ he gathered that pieaRt to be as good as hex 


LOVE A^T) OUTRAGE. 


31 


word, and to study circumspection in the future. Flora and Hervey 
she apparently regarded as a pair of children who only needed a 
trown now and then. For an hour they coasted the clifts— snowy 
walls partitioning two blue worlds— then, as if about to turn their 
backs upon the island altogether, the}’’ steered straight out into the 
open sea for an hour more. They had now reached their destina- 
tion. On the other side of the tine foreland’ come upon so suddcnl}’- 
stood the famous light-house. 

The laziest must climb the dizzy escarpment as best they could; no 
shelter from the noonday sun on the narrow strip of shore, nothing 
on wheels to raise them to the airy heights from which one oi two 
pygmies were lookings down. Full-sized human beings they could 
hardly be. None, however, shirked his duty, and soon the almost 
perpendicular sides of the cliffs had been scaled by all. Sea-sights 
and sea-sounds now vanished; they found themselves in a golden 
world of corn and flowers, not a tree anwhere. But who w'anted 
shadow under these breezy heavens, every breath wafting coolness 
and fragrance, every step lifting into aiiier regions? 

“ This is delightful,” cried Arthur, in the best possible humor. 
“ 1 shall be able to sketch; but 1 see no light-house.” 

“ The wise traveler never looks out for anything,” laughed Iler- 
vey. 

“ But,” Flora added, in a matter of fact way, ” the light-house we 
must see, because we dine there. And look! yonder is the tall, red 
tower, and the tables all ready laid in front.” 

‘‘ May we sit at your table?” asked Arthur of Elizabeth, smiling 
rather mischievously. 

” It is a great scramble. We must just take the first empty places 
we find,” was Elizabelh’s unpromising reply; and true enough, 
though Arthur found an empty place at a merry table, it was not 
hers. Hervey contrived to sit near the sisters. 

” How charming i^this homely fare, eaten in such a place!” cried 
the enraptured Londoner. ” Black bread soaked in beer soup! It 
tastes to me perfectly delicious.” 

” Does it really?” Flora said, with an ingenuous sigh. “ For my 
part, 1 would so much rather eat fine wheaten bread, and such pot- 
tage as they gave us at the hotel in Berlin ever}^ day.” 

Poor little thing, thought Hervey, the life 1 could offer her would 
indeed be soft and easy compared to that she is evidently accustomed 
to! 

Elizabeth interposed with dignity, and in rather a satiric vein, 
Hervey thought. 

” 1 do not agree with Mr. Venning. The fare is detestable in 
our island, but I dare say it will do him good.” 

” Do you take me for so gross a materialist, then?” asked Her- 
vey, affecting a grievance. 

‘‘ V/hich of us is free from materialism?” answered Elizabeth, 
severely. ‘‘You confessed to me yesterday that to eat with steel 
forks cost you a pang.” 

flervey took the reproof meekly. At any price he must ingratiate 
himself with the elder sister. Before Flora he needed no caution. 

Meantime Arthur, as soon as dinner was over, without a word set 
off, sketch-book in hand, determined to shut his thind to other 


32 


LOVE AKO MILAGE. 


temptations for the present. Having come so far i1 would be absurd 
to go home, empty-handed, and wonderiul sketching was here of a 
dream like, uneaithly kind. Tlie vast, golden plateau open to the 
four winds of heaven, the flower crowned buttresses flanking a con- 
tinent, the encircling sea dim and remote as in a picture, were not 
to be mat ched with any recollections brought from the old world or 
the new. Austerenes^ of the north was here, side by side with 
southern fullness of life and glow, dazzling biightness of flowers 
under pale northern constellations. The light-house itself, a fine, 
square, many-storied tower of deep red brick, stood in the midst of 
the corn and the poppies; but who cared to climb to the top, when 
the very ground on wdiich it stood seemed to belong to an upper 
sphere? Arthur dawdled, deliciously choosing this spot and that 
for to-morrow’s labor. His mind was quite made up now to stay 
behind, so that there could be no need of hurry, he reflected. 
Throughout all these artistic enthusiasms he was wondering what 
Elizabeth could be about, and at last made up his mind to go and 
see. 

From the headland scores of fairy ways led down to the shore, 
and in whichever direction he looked he saw straw hats and flutter- 
ing veils. Some were disporting themselves on the flowery plateau, 
others taking giddy paths that overlooked the sea further below, a 
few had escaladed the light-house, and were surveying surely halt 
Europe from the top! Arthur skirted the cliffs, distracted by the 
matchless scene — the broad open sweeps bathed in golden light and 
enameled with wild flowers dazzlingly bright; the pale phantom- 
like sea; the inefiable solitude and the silence that brooded over all. 

He had not gone far when he espied Elizabeth sitting alone on a 
grassy ledge of the cliff. A freshly gathered posy lay beside her, 
but sne was gazing intently on the sea, lost in reverie. So absorbed 
was her mood that not till he was within a few spaces did she turn 
round to greet him in no uncordial fashion, he thought. 

“ May 1 rest here also?” he asked, letting his knapsack slide to 
the ground. 

” There is no privilege here, not a boundary mark or a barrier in 
the whole island,” Elizabeth replied, smiling. ” Pray sit down.” 

” Here, if anywhere under the sun, then, people should speak 
their minds,” Arthur began. “ You and 1 have something to say 
to each other; we should not stand upon ceremony as if in a draw- 
ingroom.” 

“ Yes, 1 have many things to say to you— if I dared — ’* 

There the girl stopped, hardly a blush, just a deeper carnation, 
mantling her cheeks. 

‘‘And 1 have one thing to say to you— if 1 dared,” echoed Arthur, 
emboldened by her timidity. 

” Why should any man be afraid?” asked Elizabeth, with that fine 
flash in her eyes he had seen before. ‘‘You may behave as you 
please; the breath of slander cannot harm you. But what a little 
thing may suffice to cover a woman with shame!” Arthur naturally 
interpreted her words to be a passing comment. 

” Surely this is the very reverse of a squeamish place!” he urged. 
“ If our tete-d-tete is ill-naturedly gossiped about, then the rest of 
our neighbors fare no better.” 


LOVE AND MIRAGE, 


33 


True enough, many a group of the little company scattered about 
the headland had broken up into twos, and with excellent reason— 
the paths in this love-making island nowhere admitted ot three. 

“ 1 am not thinking of a tete-d-tete just now,” answered Elizabeth, 
“ although even thut might be blamed in me. 1 was looking further 
when 1 spoke,” She turned toward him with the beautiful expres- 
sion of candor and Ingenousness that rendered her face so charming, 
and added, ” flow can .1 feel sure that you are what 1 take you to 
be?” 

” And what is that?” asked Arthur, briskly. 

All along he had been willing one thing and wishing another. 
He longed for the very confidences he felt ready to flee Irom, 

” A good man,” was the childishly straightforward reply. ” None 
other can be my friend. ” 

” What is goodness?” Arthur asked, impatiently. “ Church- 
going? Then 1 am a sinner. Converting the heathen? Gramercy, 
write me down a villain. Alms-giving in the public ways? ’Tis 
but a brand fit for the burning am 1. But has not God given me a 
conscience as well as my more saintly neighbors? May not rny 
creed be every whit as good as theirs; better, if 1 damn tliem not? 
You catechize me.” 

” Are you pitiful toward the weak?” asked Elizabeth, with almost 
solemn inquisitorialness. ” Could you slay the vile?” 

Arthur smiled. 

” A man can hardly affirm so much of himself without blushing. 
Would you have me boast of being a paragon?” 

Elizabeth mused. 

” My own countrymen have many virtues,” she went on, ” but I 
have always believed that there is more pitifulness in the English 
character, more gentleness, perhaps, dare 1 say it, a higher sense of 
honor? Was it not in England that you invented the word gentle- 
man?” 

“That I am,” Arthur said, almost meekly. He was trembling 
inwardly before this sweet confessor, wondering what she would 
ask him next. 

“ Then,” said Elizabeth, with the same collectedness and direct- 
ness ot purpose, “it an English gentleman is all I take him to be, 
you will not despise a friendless girl for confiding in him. Listen,” 
she said, “ I must speak out. Something, 1 know not what, prompts 
me to appeal to you. ”' 


CHAPTER X. 

SELF-BETRAYAL. 

A PERILOUS position, certes, not a living soul within ear-shot, a 
lazy, languid world of ttoweis and lapping waves all their own. 
Time the monitor napping, nothing under the sun seeming to matter 
but this sweet talk of two. Let moralists rail as they may, the 
world grows wiser than it was. Men’s brains are busy with schemes 
undreamed of when prehistoric lovers went a Maying: and we ara 
mere babes and sucklings in science to our great-grandchildren 
as yet unborn. ’Tis all the same. From the time our globe was set 
s 


34 


LOVE AND MIRAGE. 


a-spinning till it shall be brought fo a stand- still, one empire sways 
humanity. A pair of lovely eyes will enslave the soul of man for- 
ever. A pretty girl makes the poetry ot the work-a-day world. 

Elizabeth went on soberly as before. “ You find us here sur- 
rounded by kindly people, but these are traveling acquaintances, as 
we say in our own language. Flora and 1 have few real friends 
left, that is why, while talking to you as a sister might to a brother, 
1 trust to you never to take advantage ot our forlorn position in the 
least little thing.” 

Arthur winced. Was, then, love-making forbidden for once and 
for all? 

” It is very hard upon us both, especially upon Flora,” she went 
on. ‘‘1 am older, and do not expect so much from life; but Flora 
is as yet a mere child. No wonder she looks upon happiness as a 
right” 

“ And why may you not be happy too?” asked Arthur, with 
kindly solicitude. 

“Happy!” cried Elizabeth, proudly. “Were men and women 
only born to run after contentment? 1 can bear sorrow, but it is 
disgrace that crushes me and breaks my heart.” 

Arthur dared not ask an explanation, fie must wait till Elizabeth 
should dash away her bin-ning tears, and, mastering herself by an 
effort, vouchsafe to enlighten him. 

“ You must not learn our story here,” she said at last. “ Most 
likely none know it, or it some do, they would keep silent oirt ot 
common charity. Flora and 1 belong to a ruined house, and the 
curse that lies on it is a curse ot shame.” 

“ But the innocent are no longer punished, even in public opinion, 
for the guilty,” Arthur said, consolingly. “ We must leave our 
kinsfolk to blush for their own misdeeds, and hold up our heads 
high all the same.” 

“ There speaks out a man’s daring; women must feel things and 
take things differently. We cannot show a brazen trout to the 
world when inwardly we are humbled to the dust.” 

Arthur felt more and more hopelessly at a loss. Had the father 
or any kinsman ot this beautiful girl played the part of coward or 
traitor in any of the late wars? 'Yas the family escutclieon thereby 
blotched forever? or might not one of her blood and name have 
gone over to the ranks of those secret guilds whose watchword is 
regicide, and dishonor come there? Again, he had heard of many 
crashes in the world of commerce lately, brought about by unfair 
speculation and shameless abuse of public credulity. A third solu- 
tion ot the mystery might be looked for in such quarters. Or, 
lastl}^ supposing that Elizabeth owned a kinswoman as lovely as 
herself, and that disgrace had come in the female line — a shameful 
marriage, a catastrophe worse still? — all these things were within 
the limits of possibility. 

Elizabeth’s thoughts seemed to have gone on another track, for 
she now turned to him with a sudden change of manner, and put 
the question, 

“ Why did you smile the other day when 1 lamented that a woman 
could not fight a duel?” she said. 


LOVE AKI) MlliAGE. 35 

“ Why? Because the fighting of duels has long fallen into ridi- 
cule ■with us. The laws, indeed, no longer permit it.” 

“ A^et aishonor is avenged that way, if your novelists depict man- 
ners faithfully.” 

” Oh! Abide by some fiction-mongers and you have an English 
constitution as fantastical as that of the moon, which, you know, a 
gay Greek was whisked up to once upon a time! But 1 beg your 
pardon. 1 have no riglit to speak slightingly of the duel, since it is 
still accepted in your country and in some others tor which 1 enter- 
tain profound esteem.” '* 

” How, then,” Elizabeth went on, “ are questions affecting family 
honoi settled by you?” 

” That depends upon the kind ol question,” said Arthur. ” The 
foul-mouthed is amenable to the law of libel; the coward, if we 
trouble ourselves to punish him at all, is let Off' with a horsevvhip- 
ping. There is another word for you of English coinage.” 

“ Would a man who insulted a woman get that?” asked Eliza- 
beth. 

“ Well,” Arthur replied, “he might get much more. The law 
does for us what dueung does for you.” 

Elizabeth looked dovvu, and on each pale cheek now burned a 
painful blush. 

“ I was thinking of offenses not amenable to the law in any coun- 
try,” she said, slowly and sadly. “ There are many.” 

Arthur looked expectant. 

“ I will give you an imaginary case,” she said, speaking deliber- 
ately, and, as he saw, with great effort. She had evidently nerved 
herself up to say something painful to disclose. “Suppose that 
you had a sister you loved very dearly, and that a man should win 
her love — the very life of a w’omau — under promise of marriage, 
then basely desert her, what punishment would such a villain re- 
ceive at your hands?” she asked, turning toward him with indig- 
nant eyes and cheeks afire. 

“ This offense is also punishable according to the letter of English 
law,” was Arthur’s reply. “ For the most part, however, a proud 
woman — and I hope my sister would be of the proudest — would 
allow no vengeance to be wasted upon that contemptible vacillator, 
a recalcitrant lover.” 

His answer seemed far from satisfactory to Elizabeth. She reflect- 
ed for a while. 

“ I have not made my meaning clear, I see,” she said. “ The 
most solemn promise a human being can make — the word that is as 
a bond — the dectaratiori given upon oatli. Shall a man forswear 
these, and yet get oft scot-free?” 

“ My honest opinion,” answered Arthur, “ is that the jilt, whether 
of your sex or mine, is loo contemptible a culprit to be brought to 
the bar at all. Society should turn a cold shoulder upon such gen- 
try, and appear to ignore their very existence. That is at last my 
notion.” Elizabeth looKed at him with an expression that more 
than discommended. There was almost contemptuous pity in the 
blue eyes now welling up with tears, and passionate remonstrance in 
the clear voice, as she faltered out, “ You have no sister!” 

Arthur felt himself in a position all the more embarrassing on ac* 


36 


LOVE AND MIRAGE. 


count of its very deliciousness. He must try to console this flutter- 
ing, tearful girl by his side— yet how? And her last words sadly 
disturbed him, tor it seemed as if there could be but one reading of 
the beautiful Elizabeth’s story. It was her own heart that had been 
wrung, her own troth shamelessly played with, herself and no other 
who needed a champion and upholder. She then knew what love 
was, and the sorrow she would fain flee from was the mirage he had 
come to seek. The conviction humiliated him, yet he reflected that 
it could hardly be otherwise. These exquisite Elizabeths never reach 
woman’s estate without wooers enow; if of unworthy sort, more’s 
the pity. In his enthusiasm he felt ready, civilian as he was, to 
measure swords with the most martial Prussian in the empire on be- 
half of his beautiful friend, 

“ I have no sister '’he began, astonished at his own hesitancy; 
“ but may not a man be moved to chivalrous feeling by other 
claims? Take me into your confidence and I will do anything you 
ask me,” 

“Will you really?” said Elizabeth, brightly, although one tear 
was still visible on her cheek, “Anything? Anything in the 
world?” she added, with strange, almost wild animation, 

“ You have my word for it,” Arthur went on, growing in his turn 
strangely aniaiated, “ Only remember rare services claim rare re- 
wards, I leave you free to exact; expect no moderation from me 
when my turn comes.’' 

Elizabeth hardly seemed to heed the import of the words, but 
grew gayer and gayer, while, deftly enough, she led him to other 
subjects. 

“ I must think— I must take time before opening myself more to 
you,” she said. “ To day it is enough for me to know that I can 
count upon one intrepid and generous- minded friend. Now tell me 
something. What could you mean by saying, when we first met, 
that you came here to wait for a mirage?” 

“ is not this the land of mirage?” asked Arthur, airily. “ Might 
not a painter be taken here at his word?” 

“ If he lived to the age of the Patriarchs, yes,” Elizabeth replied, 
laughing. “ A mirage, it is true, may be seen to morrow— likelier 
still, not for a hundred years! They say that only old folks on this 
island have ever witnessed one at all.” 

Arthur, for the life of him, could hold his peace no longer. The 
wonder of the scene, the irresistibleness of the situation, the bewil- 
dering charm of Elizabeth’s manner, as distinct from coquetry as 
her beauty from cheap prettiness— these things mastered him. He 
felt, perhaps, a touch of self-contempt, but mingled with it an ex- 
hilaration that knew no bounds. 

“ Is not everybody’s life a waiting for mirage?” he whispered. 
“ But I can wait no longer. Three days ago, at one of the clock, I 
fell in love.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

ON THE BRINK. 

That disturbing confession had the very last effect a lover could 
desire, Elizabeth, without a word or look expressive of disapproba* 


LOTE AITD MIKAGE. 37 

tion, merely rose, saying hurriedly and agitatedly that it was time 
to join the others, 

“ 1 have kept already away from Flora much too long,” she said, 
drawing down her veil to hide a blush. “ What was 1 thinking of, 
and 3^011 tbo? We shall have to embark in half an hour!” 

” i intend to stay here,” Arthur made answer, rather morosely, 
Elizabeth thought. She looked the inquiry she preferred not to put 
into words, 

Truth to tell,” he went on, vindictively, “ if 1 return 1 should 
want to be talking to you all day long. 1 had better stay lor awhile 
where 1 am.” 

Again Elizabeth took refuge in silence, Arthur resenting it more 
and more. He saw Herve}’’ and Flora with others approaching, and 
heard the barsh whistle of the steamer summoning the holiday- 
makers to embark. He certainly sliould remain behind for at least 
a week. But for all that Elizabeth ought to answer him. 

” Do express an opinion one wav or another,” he finally added, 
almost tarth^ “ Shall 1 go or stay?” 

Flora was already near, hastening toward them to boast of her 
sea-bolly. bhe had a sheaf ol it — a wonderful sight as she now held 
it up in the pure, transparent light— a fiower that belonged to the 
sea, a leaf that belonged to the sky! 

Arthur looked at Elizabeth. 

“We had better do our thinking apart,” she said, in a low voice. 
That was all. Then the conversation became a mere buzz. Every- 
body had an adventure to tell of. Some at peril of life and limb 
had found a sea-crow’s nest in the cliffs; others a piece of amber on 
the shore; golden sea-poppies, rare agates, fossils, were the spoils of 
a few. Only Arthur was empty-handed. “Mr, Venning is no 
naturalist?” asked one of the party. 

“ Mr. Venning stays at the light-house. He has plenty of time be 
fore him,” Elizabeth answered, quickly. “ Will he have fine 
weather?” 

“ That no one can answer for on this island,” another made an- 
swer. “ Like a capricious beauty, one smile is here purchased by a 
dozen frowns — 1 apprehend a change soon.” 

“ Would you not do better to return?” asked Hervey; but Arthur 
persisted in his intention. A weather-bound week had no terrors 
for him, he said. He had one book and plenty of sketching mate- 
rials 

.“Solitude has ever charms for your country-folks, 1 know,” 
laughed a third tourist. “You English really relish a Robinson 
Crusoe existence, otherwise 1 would gladly offer you my company.” 

Arthur pleasantly declined the proffered sociability, and felt posi- 
tive satisfaction as he watched the rest of the company embark, by 
little and little the crazy vessel being steadied by its living freight. 
There are no common nights in these regions. As the little steamer 
slowly and laboriously got under way, it glided straight into the 
fiery west, leaving Arthur alone in his mellow world, deep azure 
skies, warm air stirring the corn and the flow'ers— a little kingdom 
of pure deliciousness all his own. Small as was this island— to be 
traversed lazily in a long summer da}^— the traveler yet gained here 
a marvelous sense pf vastuess and expansion. There was awfulness 


38 


LOVE AND M IK AGE. 


and sublimity in these natural parapets, high as mountains, that 
walled it round about, dreamy loveliness and mystery in the glimpses 
gained from all parts of its tiny capital, miles away, that crested a 
fair hill; above all, gloom and majesty in its ancient beechen groves 
close to a fairy sea. Arthur sat down on a flowery monticule, 
watching the black speck on the waters, with thoughts alike dis- 
tractingly sweet and yet uneasy. The longer he speculated on the 
matter, the more he felt convinced that Elizabeth must be the hero- 
ine of her own story. Adorable as she was, there yet lived a man 
ignoble enough and blind enough to woo and then desert her. This 
beautiful girl had undoubtedly been jilted by some villain whom he 
could at that moment have hurled with alacrity from the precipice 
on which he sat. But her love for this craven-spirited wretch was 
long turned to bitterest scorn; of that he felt sure. Like himself 
she was free to love. Did she understand the meaning of his 
words? Was he already something to her? Would this sweet 
place, islanded from the world of every day and all familiar things, 
be the scene of their betrothal? 

Arthur was angry with himself for letting his thoughts wander to 
another figure in this romance of three days — the sad-eyed lady of 
the pictures. Who might she be, and what was her story? 

Well, he concluded, there is time enough lor all questions to be 
settled, all problems to be solved. It so many things had happned 
in less than one week, how many more might happen in six? And 
with that philosophical reflection he returned to his homely quarters 
in the light-house. A supper of black bread, salt fish, and thin 
beer, may even be swallowed b}’- a fastidious Londoner, under certain 
circumstances, without a wr}’- face. Arthur ate and drank content- 
edly, while he flirted with the light-house- keeper’s pretty daughter, 
then took a last turn abroad before going to rest. 

There was no moon, but an eliulgence more subdued, alight softer 
and more transparent. Every object was clearly defined in this 
wondrous atmosphere that was neither wholly day nor night, fairer 
thao both, while over all brooded ineffable calm and stillness. Only 
the sound of the raves as they plashed against the shore broke the 
pervaaing silence. 

“ 1 wish I were a genius!” sighed Arthur, as he loitere(^ back to 
write down his impressions certainly, but in a critical rather than a 
poetic vein. He could tell others what he saw; ne could not make 
them feel what he felt: the difference, I take it, between talent and 
genius. He stayed on, well pleased with his quarters; indeed had 
it been otherwise there was no possibility of getting away. The sky 
was lair, but winds were contrary, and neither sail nor steamer could 
make for the light- house till they changed. The sea, a smooth, 
silken floor no longer, had changed from silvery gray to dark aqua- 
marine, and, broken up into short, angry waves, with white crests, 
dashed ominously against the shore. There was a rough road that 
led homeward across the corn-fields, it is true, but alike horses and 
carry-alls were now busy 'with the gathering in the corn, and this 
roundabout way would have taken a whole day. Arthur preferred 
to wait for a steamer, enjoying himself lazily meanwhile. This 
grim tower, set as a watch over treacherous seas, soon seemed a 
home. 


LOVE AND MIKAGE. 


39 


He even grew accustomed to the coarse fare, which certainly was 
made more palatable by the pretty maiden who served it. The 
homely saws and primitive ways of the tisher-folk amused him, 
while alike on the breez}’^ headland or on the narrow strip of shore 
below he eot sketching in plenty. Then there, were the flowers, and 
even a Londoner may care for these when making holiday on an 
island. He thought, if he stayed there six mouths instead of so 
many weeks, he should become not merely an admirer of the pict- 
uresque but a real lover ot nature, winch is quite another thing. 

At the end of the fourth day this delicious dawdling was rudely 
interrupted. The wind had changed suddenly; the sea showed a 
glassy surface; the light-house folk were astir, catering for expected 
guests; and there, sure enough, was the little steamer making for 
the lea. For all that, Arthur was minded to sta.y, and would have 
stayed had not the captain put in his hand a tiny missive from 
Hervey. It was a penciled scrawl, evidently worded in desperate 
haste. “ You must come back in the steamer,” ran Hervey 's mis- 
sive. “An invitation from the prince this moment arrived. For 
to-moriow, mind.” 

Arthur did not know whether to be pleased or vexed. He liked 
this toying with love and destiny; to be on the brink ot making love 
near this sweet Elizabeth, yet so far oft, within a. hair’s-breadth of 
fate, but not yet caught in her toils. He must accept the invitation 
against his will — a man of the wmi’ld could not slight an invitation 
brought about by a letter introductory. To do so would look almost 
like an insult to the writer of it— a common friend of the prince and 
himself. Arthur was too well versed in the ways of society not 
nicely to appraise the value of good company. It is ever expedient 
to visit at great men’s houses. We are all bound to accept the 
standards of the world. Expediency is cousin -german to the virtues. 
Thus he moralized, although only one thought lent interest to the 
projected visit. 

Would that vision flash before him once more— the unforgetable 
face, the black-robed figure, the deep, pathetic eyes? So intense 
was this memory that he almost trembled with eagerness as he con- 
templated the possibility of a meeting. All the brightness and 
beauty associated with Elizabeth’s name were pure human; the lady 
of the picture seemed to him to belong to a world as yet unknown to 
him— intense, passionate, unattainable by speculation. 

With mixed feelings ot regret and looking forw^ard he took a last 
stroll on that fragrant, flowery platform, half-w^ay, as it seemed, b(i- 
tw^een the stars and the sea. Around him all was gold and blue; 
the yellow ot the corn, the dazzling blue of the flowers, and vaster 
even than his airy abiding-place stretched the warm heavens above 
and the warmer sea below, dove-like hues and dove-like quiet every- 
w^here. ” I shall never come here again,” mused Arthur, as he de- 
scended the steep sides ot the cliff, and once moi-e intrusted himself 
to the tender mercies of the crazy steamer. ‘‘Why should 1 wish to 
see it again?” he added. ‘‘ Is it mine as long as I live?” 

He made up his mind to say nothing of the coming visit to Eliza- 
beth. Hervey would hardly have alluded to the subject, since even 
to mention an invitation from a prince is to boast ot it; and as 
every personal topic becomes matter for gossip in small watering- 


40 


LOYE Al^D MIEAGE, 


places, he determined to keep their movements dark. Moreover, 
perhaps from some democratic notions picked up at school, Eliza- 
beth had already expressed herself unfavorably concerning princes 
in general and one in particular. Much better she should not be en- 
lightened as to his acquaintances in this line. 


I CHAPTER Xll. 

FOKE SHADOWING. 

There are some places in which it is impossible to keep anything 
secret, and this little fishing village was one. Long befoie the mo- 
ment for departure came, it was noised abroad that these two En- 
glishmen had received the honor of an invitation to the palace. 
How can a community be expected to keep silence on a matter re- 
dounding to its credit? From one end of the hamlet to the other 
people were proud that this mark Of distinction had been vouchsafed 
to their especial visitors. The thing would be talked of for years to 
come. A princely invitation, and to whom? To a pair of unas- 
suming young Englishmen, civilians, untitled, undecorated, nobodies 
in popular estimation till this startlirig piece of information had 
come to take everybody’s breath away. 

The deportment of the brothers astounded observeisno less. They 
absolutely never once alluded to the subject. But for the loquacious- 
ness of their driver, and that young and old, gentle and simple, were 
on the alert, not a soul would have known of their destination, as 
next day they quietly drove through the village street, all the world 
agape, acquaintances bowiug and smiling at the windows. 

Only Elizabeth and Flora held aloof. They had been placed op- 
posite the pair, as usual, at the taUe-d hote, but both girls seemed a 
little shy and spiritless, Arthur thought. He forbore to question 
Hervey afterward, and Hervey made no overtures. The subject of 
their beautiful friends was banished as if by tacit understanding. 

We went here, we did that, Hervey said, when describing the way 
in which the last few days had been spent. He never so much as 
once mentioned Flora’s name. Then there were many items of En- 
glish news to discuss — a heap of newspapers and letters were opened 
and glanced at on the way. Both found plenty to talk about with- 
out venturing on dangerous ground. All this time they were going 
the same road Arthur had passed over so sullenly a few days back. 
To-day the weather was dazzlingly bright, and his own mood un- 
usually animated and sparkling. What Hervey mistook for mere 
high spirits indeed was downright excitement and restlessness. He 
felt in a double, nay, threefold sense, the bewilderment of an ad- 
venturous traveler, bound he knows not whither, on the verge of 
discoveries and emotiops he cannot so much as coldly prefigure. 
The scenery, too, moved him not a little, and although he had made 
the same journey before, he was now seeing it for the first time. 

“ On my word, this is the most wonderful little country in the 
world,” he cried, when they were about half- w' ay to their destina- 
tion. ‘‘ Look at yonder town, with its grand old church perched 
on the hill! I have seen an Eastern city just, as gemmy, aerial, and 


LOVE AND MIEAGE. 


41 


transparent; amethystine pyramid, surmounted by a crystal jlome, 
and all around mother-of-pearl and molten gold! But the cloud- 
picture will not melt, and when we are on the other side of the hill 
we shall find colors as brilliant and solid as in North Italy — lapis- 
lazuli sea, hanging woods of maiachite, and little close-shut land- 
scapes, each a veritable mosaic. 

“We shall go straight back to-morrow, of course,” liervey said, 
yawning. He was evidently in no mood for scenery, no matter how 
bewitching. 

“ Really,” Arthur rejoined, “you seem to forget that time is 
going fast. W e are bound to see samething of the inland before 
leaving it.” 

Hervey did not look as if the island particularly interested him. 

“ And if the prince insists upon keeping us another day, we are 
bound to stay,” the elder brother went on. “ I wonder if I have 
time to make a sketch.” 

Here followed a discussion with the driver, and the result was 
that Arthur descended to make his sketch, while Hervey went on in 
the carry-all. “ The horses must rest for two hours on the top of 
the hill,” said their conductor, so Hervey offered to go on and order 
the dinner, while Arthur followed on toot half an hour later. The 
two just perceptibly jarred each other. Arthur was irritated at 
Hervey ’s iiidiff'eience to this strange sweet landscape; Hervey won- 
dered how his brother could be more enlhusiaslic about places than 
human beings. The island was certainly delicious and romantic, 
but it lacked charm when Flora was not by. While the younger 
man’s state of mind was perfectly clear to the elder, Arthur, on the 
contrary, was a complete puzzle to Hervey. How indeed can one 
man understand another, and a subtler? We perpetually fall into 
the error of measuring others by our own standard, just as we are 
apt to appraise the material world, according to the limited capacities 
of self-consciousness. What is deeper than ourselves we shall hardly 
attain to, whether it be an individual character or that wonderful 
environment of humanity we loosely call creation. 

It was plain enough that Hervey Joved the artless Flora, and in- 
tended to marry her; but if Arthur loved Elizabeth, why this rest- 
lessness, this unevenness of temper, this quarreling with a captivat- 
ing state of things? 

But although Arthur’s conduct troubled him, the easy-going Ker- 
vey could not break through the habits of a lifetime. The elder 
might say what he would, the younger could only say what befitted. 
Each was sure to go his own way, only one would ever play the 
part of critic. 

There were intellectual differences no less striking. Every impres- 
sion told upon Arthur’s inner life; Hervey saw things quickly and 
seized their meaning readily, but they hardly enriched, much less 
metamorphosed him. This picture, for instance, he was looking on 
now, he would remember as long as he lived. Many a prospect he 
had seen in his travels far more superb and inthralling, none that 
affected him so strangely. 

Was he indeed beholding shadows or substantial things, cloud- 
land or solid hill, and structure of men’s hands? Could the fabled 
mirage he had come in quest of bo fairer to the eye, touch the spirit 


42 


LOVE AND MIRAGE. 


with, finer emotion? And as he gazed and gazed he threw down his 
paint-brush in a rapture of despair. Impossible to reproduce these 
silvery lights, this matchless iridescence. He had delicate hues 
enough on his palette, but the colors of that fair cit}’', and the hill on 
which it stood, and the sky round about, he could not find. City, 
did 1 say? The island possessed none. Tiniest townling this, a mere 
fairy place, yet by virtue of its ancient church and position it wore 
from afar almost the aspect of a citadel. Arthur, however, put away 
his sketching things aud attempted no more. And, as often hap- 
pens, when he had walked a mile or more and he cameanear, there 
was nothing wonderful to see at all, only a church of the olden time, 
perched on a high lull, and a straggling village street of cheerful 
white-washed houses, each with its flower-garden after the fashion 
of these parts. There, too, was the unronrantic llerve}^ quite de- 
lighted at the prospect of a dinner, delighted also that the day was 
halt over, that the morrow and Flora would soon come. 

“We shall most likely be bored to death at the palace,” he began. 

“Now, Hervey,” the elder brother admonished, tartly, “ bored or 
no we must make ourselves agreeable. But why in the name of 
common sense should we be bored?” 

“ If asked to stay over to-morrow, I shall say I have an engage- 
ment; which will be the truth,” Hervey retorted. “ I am going to 
escort Elizabeth and Flora to the Black Lake.” 

“ I shall stay if I am pressed, and so of course must you,” was 
the curt reply. Hervey took the answer as it was meant, and then 
they chatted of other things. An hour later they were ofl: again ; 
and while Hervey dozed conveniently, Arthur had lime to think 
quietly over his position. He must hold himself on his guard, for 
he might need all his tact, nonchalance, and self-possession. His 
former visit and its untoward adventure might accidental!}^ reach 
the ears of his host and require explanation; or his beautiful sitter, 
what if she should let carelessly fall a compromising word? For his 
mind was made up beforehand. He should now see her again, and 
leain the reason of her strange reserve and sadness. They should 
come to know each other, at least, so he felt sure, because he 
willed it. 

Then he thought of his sweet friend Elizabeth. Ah, little of mys- 
tery or adventure here! Only an honest falling in love. For in love 
he was — Hervey no deeper — but he felt that Time sufficed for love 
and Elizabeth. His life should belong to her. Twm days he must 
first have to himself, two days for a little life of feeling and emotion 
with which she had nothing to do. 

“ The prince?” Hervey asked, suddenly waking from- his drowse. 

“ Is he old or young, married or single?” 

“I have not the least notion,” Arthur made answer; “but we 
shall soon find out. W e are already within the precincts of the park. ’ ’ 

CHAPTER XIII. 

THE WOULD. 

But a veil was lifted from the scene Arthur had gazed on coldly 
a few days before. It was as some glowing Alpine landscape from 
which the morning mists have cleared. Instead of clinging vapor 


LOVE AKD MIRAGE. 


43 

and watery clouds, pierced here and there by wan, melancholy 
green, a veritable revelation of the warm, voluptuous South now 
flashed on his ej'^es. 

C'ould this airy structure, with its colonnade of purest marble 
breaking the azure sky, lie in the very lair of the north wind? 
These terraced gardens and lovely little lake, on which the swan 
“ sailed double, swan and shadow,” these rich red roses, each a 
floral paragon, these orange groves showing golden fruit and waxen 
bloom amid the same green leaves, the snow-white statues gleam- 
ing from bright foliage, all spoke of Italy. Immediately around the 
palace were parterres and smooth, lawny pleasance, but far and wide 
stretched the park, alley upon alley, bosquet upon bosquet ottering 
dappled light and shadow, with occasional glimpses of the pale, 
crystalline, inland sea. To add to the magic of the place, the air 
from end to end was fragrant with the sweet smell of the lime-trees 
just now in full flower. It was captivating, It was unsurpassed. 

If the outside of the palace was a surprise to the travelers, what 
weie their feelings when the wide portal admitted them within? 
Exact taste and boundless outlay could accomplish no more. Ar- 
thur’s experienced eye saw at a glance that his host was not only 
an expensive man but a skilled art collector. On every side 
were evidences of connoisseurship and discrimination: here an ex- 
quisite statuette from some modern atelier; there a fascinating little 
chef cV oeuvre from the hand of the great Cellini. Every object, in- 
deed, was a work of art, from the gold inkstand of mediaeval work- 
manship on the writing-table, to the hand-bellows adorned with the 
prince’s monogram in pearls and turquois. All ages and all coun- 
tries had been laid under tribute for this palace of art within sound 
of arctic seas. I'here were canvases of Tintoret to and the superb 
Spaniard, panels of Cordovan leather, old as the Crusades, Gobelin 
tapestries, /rwence of Moustier and Kevers, when heroes paid hom- 
age to a prince of Urbino, and cabinets of the famous Buhl himself. 
What w'as there not? And all in fastidious keeping. No profusion, 
nothing out of place, not a bagatelle that lepresented mere wealth. 
These impressions were of the moment only, for the inspection of 
the palace and its art collections could not, of course, be thought of 
then. The brothers were conducted straight to their chambers, and 
informed that the prince would receive them in the octagon draw- 
ing-room half an hour later, ‘‘which was the hour of dinner,” 
added the servant. ‘‘ His Highness dines at six in the summer sea- 
son.” 

Arthur went through the business of dressing with mixed feel- 
ings. It was an imperative duty to talk his best that evening, and 
he knew well enough that he could talk well when he chose. But 
his thoughts would wander to the mysterious adventure of the week 
before. ‘‘ The prince dines at six in the summer season.” 

He repeated these words to himself several times, but without any 
possibility of attaching a dubious meaning. His host might be mar- 
ried, a bachelor, or widowed. One thing seemed certain. He was 
now alone. 

” Arthur’” said Hervey, putting his head in his neighbor’s door 
when half-way through his toilet^ “ now you won’t stay here after 
to-morrow, will you?” 


44 


LOVE AND MIRAGE. 


“ Don’t you be a fool!” was Arthur’s unflattering retort. “The 
Black Lake can wait, and Flora can wait. Never refuse good com- 
pany and good fare when 3^011 can ael them.” 

Arthur’s surmises were true. When they descended to the daz- 
zling little octagon room, lighted only from above, its sole adorn- 
ment a series of frescoes, they found the prince unattended. Ills 
secretary, who came in a moment later, made up the quartet. 

“It is the first time 1 have had the honor of entertaining any of 
your countrymen here,” began the prince, blandly, “and indeed 1 
know not if my art collection has ever been v.isited by an English 
amateur. What Englishman has not seen the moon rise on the pyr- 
amids, and the sun refuse to set at Hammerfest? You set off for the 
North- pole as unconcernedly as for Epsom races, but all pass my 
island by,” 

“ Fortunately for your Highness,” replied Arthur, quickly; “ did 
people know what it is like, the park you so magnanimously throw 
open would be as crowded as the Prater on Whit-Monday.” 

This beginning made all things easy, and when was a dinner-party 
of four agreeable men otherwise than perfect? There is an abandon 
which mere social reunions of both sexes cannot attain to; within 
the limits of entire discretion in speech and deportment, a freedom, 
if not from restraint, at least from the desire of pleasing, which 
must actuate men when placed beside women at the dinner-table. 
These genial diners were one and all as far removed from undue ex- 
hilaration as could be. Yet the pleasure that may honestly arise 
from the enjoyment of matchless wines and rare meats comes into 
stronger relief than at mixed assemblies. Princes are bound to get 
at knowledge by short cuts, and Arthur soon found that he was be- 
ing affably drawn out on many subjects useful to an art collector. 
His pleasant host, by the time dinner was over, knew as much about 
the last phases of artistic development in England and France as if 
he had expended time and eyesight upon all -the best publications of 
a twelvemonth. What would you have? We humble folks surel 3 ^ 
do not expect to be bidden to princely tables for nothing. 

Arthur Venning, artist and art critic in a fastidious, limited field, 
was a capital talker on his own subject. He just escaped being 
called an amateur, but his work, both on paper and canvas, while 
unpretentious in the extreme, possessed qualities which many who 
had made much more of a name might envy. Alike his drawing 
and his writing showed consummate taste, skill, and finish. He 
knew what form was— -a rare achievement— and had he been poor Or 
ambitious would doubtless have done much more. 

“ 1 cannot permit you to go away to-morrow^” said the prince, 
when the quartet smoked cigarettes on the balcony. What dese- 
cration to smoke amid such roses! thought Arthur, who was not 
wedded to the pastime. “ You really must remain my guests one 
night more.” 

Arthur accepted delightedly. Hervey tried to look as if the pro- 
posal weie to his mind. Their host went on: 

“ 1 am compelled to go to-morrow to my hunting schloss in the 
forest, and the thought has occurred to me that perhaps Mr. liervey 
Venning would like the drive, while Mr. Arthur Venning might 
prefer to be left behind among tlie pictures.” 


LOVE AND MIRAGE. 


45 


“ The very privilege I could have asked,” Arthur said. ‘‘ The 
fact is, with your Highness’s leave, 1 should like to make a few 
notes of your great masters for the benefit of art lovers at home.” 

‘‘ Do exactly, as you please,” answered the prince, evidently 
charmed at the notion that the fame of his collection would now 
reach English ears. 

” A Velasquez in a remote islet inhabited by a handful of fisher- 
men. Your phlegmatic countrymen will be astonislied, eh?” 

They will come to see,” put in flervey, mischievously. 

” All the better. How the English are loved every where on the 
Continent! How they spend money and flatter us!” laughed the 
prince, gayly. Then, with almost a rollicking air, he went on to 
say, that having in view the prosperity of the island, and a good in- 
vestment, he contemplated building a big hotel and bath just outside 
the park, and a casino within its very precincts, finally laying down 
a railway to the landing-place over against the Continent. 

Arthur looked positively shocked. Was the last little Eden in 
Europe to be handed over to the tourist by contract? This earthly 
Paradise, if any existed, to be invaded by the building; speculator? 
Every imaginable horror passed before his mind — shill-vOiced, elder- 
ly ladies with their courier and poodle; transatlantic explorers in 
bands of fi-fty; the typical English paterfamilias with his correct 
family, stifit as whalebone; the bustle, the artificiality, the vulsrar- 
ness of Swiss travel brought to these idyllic woods on the shores of 
the Baltic. 

” Mr. Venning does not seem taken by my plans,” continued the 
host, as he gracefully scattered the ashes of his cigarette among the 
roses. ” But is not taste a moloch that devours us? Would not an 
art lover sell the mummy of his grandmother for an Old Master? 
And we must all live.” 

As soon as it grew dusk they went in doors, and dawdled through 
the splendid salons, glancing at this chef (Vceuvre and that. Arthur 
looked and listened tor a sign of feminine presence, but none came. 
No women were to be seen anywhere; no delicate belongings indi- 
cated even the occasional sojourn of a mistress. And, as the even- 
ing wore on, the prince accidentally alluded to his celibate condition. 

Still Arthur’s mind would revert to his adventure with mixed feel- 
ings of relief and curiosity. He was pretty certain that no reference 
would now be made to the circumstance of his first visit. The 
•woman servant who had opened to him was nowhere to be seen, not 
a trace of the beautiful sitter; the prince evidently in ignorance of 
the whole affair. These reflections were welcome, but he could not 
resign himself to the thought that the mystery should end there. He 
must find out who this lady was, and unravel the secret of her sad- 
ness and her isolation. But the prince was goine to carry Hervey 
off to the hunting schloss in the forest next day, and as he should 
have the palace to himself, he would by some means or other solve 
the problem. It was late when the party separated, yet Arthur had 
no inclination for sleep. Vague foreshadowings of trouble disqui- 
eted him; and the realities of the day were not altogether agreeable. 

We cannot put our tlioughts into plain language when under a 
strange roof, but Arthur had already discovered without a word that 
on one point he and Hervey were of the same mind ; they did not 


4G 


LOVE AKD MIRAGE, 


feel unreservedly drawn toward their host. Charming as he was, a 
man of cullure and of the world, much traveled, an apt talker, gay, 
cosmopolitan, something was wanting; just that undefinable some- 
thing we must have in our friends. And as Arthur lay pondering 
in the midnight silence, he seemed to find in this character he was 
studying just the glimmering of light, the clew he wanted. Yes, 
he said to himself, at last, 1 have a clew, flow, indeed, can a man 
choose but carry about with him his life-story written in his face? 

CflAPTER XIV. 

MYSTER'S 

The travelers'woke up to find a perfect day wedded to a perfect 
place. Within and without prevailed deliciousness. Light showers 
had fallen during the night, sprinkling the roses with diamonds, 
while as the sun rose high in the heavens the fragrance of the lime- 
trees w’as wafted warmly throughout the length and breadth of the 
park. Under the niajestic alle3"s of silver fir and pine, and in the 
dappled glj^des far away, were coolness and shadow; alike palace, 
rose-garden, and fairy lake lay in warm sunshine. The wLite statues 
amid glistening green leaves, the exotics wreathing airy columns, the 
silvery fountains springing from marble basin, the glow of richness, 
warmth, and beauty, were enough to make a beholder swear himself 
in Ital}'"; and, wander whichever waj'^ he might, his eyes would find 
the sea, on this superlative July morning, clear turquois lapping 
golden sands. 

Close about the palace all loveliness and witchery reached their 
acme, yet the picture was incomplete -it w^anted a beautiful woman. 
So at least Arthur thought as he lingered among the statuary and 
the orange-trees before going in-doors to revel in another kind of en- 
chauiment. lie could not conceive of any man taking pleasure in 
such a place alone. Such camellias should fgrow for a girl’s fair 
head; such roses should put the finishing touch to the dress of a 
beauty. The orangery looked cold for want of an exquisite gowm. 
The prince had carried flervey off betimes, saying they should not 
be back till dinner-time, so that Arthur had the day and the place to 
himself, fle was free to do as he pleased, and w^ander whither he 
wmuld. 

At last he went indoors, and in accordance wdth his host’s sug- 
gestion very carefully and observantly made the round of tlie state 
drawing-room. Amid the works of art that met his eyes on every 
side— a Canova here, a Thorwaldsen there, sculpture predominating 
in this room — his attention was soon riveted by a man’s head in mar- 
ble, evidently a modern chef d'muvre, and the likeness of a face that 
he seemed to know, fle looked, and looked, and looked again. 
Where had he seen that well-shaped head, that cold yet admirable 
contour, that beautifully proportioned throat? fle started and smiled 
to himself, flow was it that he now tor the first time discovered 
his host to be one of the handsomest men lie had ever seen? Stoop- 
ing doivn he found the name of an Italian sculptor engraved on the 
base, and in juxtaposition the word “ Koma ” with a date. The 
bust was seven j^ears old, and in the interval the sitter had grown a 
beard, quite reason enough for non-recognition at first sight. But 


LOVE AI^D MIRAGE. 


47 

the excellence of the work, considered from an artistic point of 
view, tascinated. It -was a masterpiece both of design and execu- 
tion, a striking achievement ot imagination, as well as critical fac- 
ulties of a high order. Opening his sketch-book he amused himself 
by making a copy. 

So absorbed he grew in his task that when, half an hour later, the 
door behind him was unclosed softly he did not observe the sound. 
As soon, however, as a footfall touched the polished floor close by 
his chair he turned carelessly around to see who the intruder might 
be. The genial occupation of the last half hour had driven all irrele- 
vant thoughts and stray conjectures out ot his head. Bent solely on 
making a fair copy ot the fine piece of sculpture before him, not 
once had the dominant fancy of the day before disturbed his mood. 
The sad, ineffably lovely apparition in black was for the moment 
forgotten. 

On a sudden she was there, looking sadder, even more beautiful 
than before. She wore the same kind of dress, noiseless, nim-like 
drapery of funereal black, only relieved by a white lace kerchief 
knotted about her throat, and on her bosom a bunch of the while, 
starry flowers Arthur knew. They were the rare floweis he had 
found growing on the island, the flowers Elizabeth so loved for her 
dead sister's sake, lie sprung to bis feet, overcome with surprise 
and pleasure. He was about to speak, to explain, to apologize, 
when, without a word, the lady silenced him. 

Do not speak to me. Do not look at me. her face sakl, as she 
swiftly and noiselessly crossed the room. No written mandate 
plainer, no vehement utterance more imperative than the glance she 
gave him as she drew near. He stood diimtounded, yet secretly 
on the alert. In silence the charge w^as given; m silence the pledge 
accorded. So far the two entirely understood each other. 

But the little scene did not end here. Arthur’s naturally quick 
perceptions, sharpened by the ladj^’s meaning glance, told him that 
her coming was not accidental, that she had something further to 
sa}’’ to him. He watched her passage from one end of the room to 
the other, tlierefore, with apparently careless yet vigilant eyes, wait- 
ing for a further sign. The manner ot giving it was simple. As 
the black-robed figure now' traversed the salon from end to end, she 
was obliged to pass the chair on which he had deposited his note- 
books and sketching-blocks. So deftly and noiselessly that the action 
must have been uuperceived even had others been by, she here let 
fall from her hand a folded paper, then passed on. Arthur sprung 
forward to open the opposite door, wailed automatically to close it 
upon her, and returned to his bust as if nothing had happened. The 
lady’s manner impressed upon him the necessity of extreme caution, 
so that he durst not venture on taking any notice of the missive for 
the present. Not till a fair silhouette had been made, and the 
sketch-book laid down, could he contrive to satisfy his curiosity. 

There were only a few penciled words in English, and they were 
these : 

“ I have something to say to you. By the iron-bound oak, on the 
eastern confines of the park, in an hour’s time we could talk unob- 
served.” 


48 


LOVE AND MIKAGE, 


In an hour’s time! Arthur set to work upon his memoranda with 
extraordinary zeal. What would the prince think if he should find 
nothing done during his absence! A whole long summer day and 
not a note worth mentioning! So, with desperate deteimmation to 
put away all conjecture an(i all personality for three-quarters of an 
hour, he began to jot down a few critical remarks upon the great 
pictures in the gallery. 

For nothing short of a picture-gallery was this sumptuous recep- 
tion roon\, and as he passed from canvas to canvas he found the 
minutes fly despairingly fast. He should have to stay another day 
at the palace, and what would Hervey say to that? 

Still, three quarters of an hour may be turned to excellent account 
when the faculties are sharpened by mixed feelings of bewilderment 
and responsibility. Arthur was bound to keep his word to his host. 
He was all the same bound to stay a lady’s bidding. By the time 
he must set off m search of the iron-bound oak he had covered a 
dozen pages with apt and serviceable notes. 

The eastern confines of the park lay far away from the palace, 
and its enticing precincts in an inland direction. Here, instead of 
close-shaven lawns and stately avenues, fairy dells, and winding 
walks, was a wilderness of tangled grass and undergrowth. The 
wild deer might be seen sporting amid these solitudes,_and far as tlie 
eye could reach stretched the interminable forest. Where, indeed, 
the park.ended, the forest began. Arthur’s quick eye soon discerned 
an ancient oak with straggling, leafless branches and battered sides, 
pieced together by massive iron bands. 

There was a moss-grown rustic seat under its branches, but um- 
brageous shadows no longer, and the very birds and butterflies had 
long forsaken it. Bare and desolate it stood in its hoary age, a Lear 
of the forest world k Without glancing round, Arthur seated him- 
self on the wooden bench, and pulling out a sketch-book began to 
draw the picturesque scene before him. How could he feel sure 
that he was not watched? Tnis meeting must appear purely acci- 
dental to possible observers. 

As he waited, putting many surmises and suggestions together, 
light dawned on his mind. He seemed hardly to need any explana- 
tion on the part of the lady now. Her history had already revealed 
itself to him. He felt sure that he knew the saddest and weightiest 
things she had to tell. By-and-by he saw her coming; if so lovely 
in her sadness, what must she be in a moment of joy? 

For the life of him Arthur could not help putting down his sketch- 
book and gazing at the picture she made as she emerged from the 
wood. It was, above all, the dignity of the black robed figure that 
struck him then. A woman may be perfect without absolute beauty, 
if she possesses this admirable gift of dignity, and, not possessing it, 
wants all things in certain fastidious eyes. Arthur Venning could 
not remember having seen any one who so nearly approached his 
ideal of feminine excellence. The look, the manner, the indescrib- 
able something that makes every human being what he is, were 
faultless to his thinking, the pathetic wistfulness and look of appeal 
heightening her beauty. All was impressive, not to be matched, still 
less forgotten or described. 


LOVE AND MIEAGE. 49 

Agitated and expectant lie sprung to his feet, and bared his head 
as she drew near. 


CHAPTER XV. 

REVELATION. 

Site made a sign to him to be seated, and sitting down also began 
without preamble. “ Will you do sornsthing for me when you get 
back to England?” Then looking straight into his face, she added, 
with painful eagerness, “ That forlorn lady I mentioned to you, 
who wants to gain her bread in your country, is myself. Can you 
help me?” 

What could Arthur do but express his readiness, his devotion? 
“ Only let your wishes be made known, and I will exert mj^self to 
the utmost to serve you,” he stammered forth, alert to the delicious- 
ness of the situation, yet prosaically alive to the dilticulties of the 
task he was imposing upon himself. Without sisters, without fem- 
inine kinsfolk, he was surely the last person in the wmrld who should 
proffer help to a lady in such straits. Despite his prompt affirma- 
tion, just a shade of discomposure was visible to the eyes intently 
watching his own. 

”1 am asking a great kindness, 1 know,” she went on, speaking 
in the same quiet, almost despairing voice. ” 1 have no one to say 
a good word for me, not a friend in the world, yet 1 must live.” 

Agaiao she looked at Arthur, as if to read him through and 
through, then, evidently with a growing confidence and almost a 
feeling of liking, she went on : 

“Your looks tell me that you have a kind heart, and 1 am sure 
you are honorable; 1 will therefore trust you so far. You must find 
me such service in your country as may be performed by those who 
have no past, no history. Oh!” she cried, her whole sorrowful soul 
seeming to lean on him in the extremity of her helplessness and deso- 
lation, “surely in England, if anywhere, 1 may find one large 
heart, to whom a woman is a woman still, in spite of such misfort- 
unes as mine!” 

A tear or two fell, but without wiping them away she hurried on, 
now in low, eager tones : 

“ JSTone but yourself aie to know that 1 have lost my good name. 
1 am bound to tell you, or you could not help me. Y"ou will keep 
silence, 1 know.” 

Arthur’s looks answered for him. 

He was fain to be eloquent, but the words did not come; none 
seemed weighty enough for the occasion. 

“There are many things 1 can do well,” she continued, with 
plaintive earnestness. “ 1 would fulfill any trust committed to me; 
1 would be good to little children or sick folk. But theie is one 
charge I should like best of all.” 

Then, smiling through her tears, she said, “ It is a foolish fancy, 

1 cannot help living in terror of people’s eyes. If 1 could only min- 
ister to the blind in one of their asylums, or devote myself to some 
sightless person, I think 1 could grow'- almost happy again.” 

“You must be happy again,” Arthur rejoined, with affected 


50 


LOVE AND 3I1KAGE. 


cheerfulness, although his heart was sinking within him. This 
superb creature a hospital nurse, a serving- woman ! The thought 
was not to be borne. 

“ Have you any blind friend?” she asked, artlessly, not in the least 
divining what track his thoughts had taken. ” 1 am skilled in 
music. 1 have a fine voice, so people say; 1 know many things — ” 

” That is but a dreary prospect you speak of,” Arthur said; ” 1 
will try to think of a better scheme. There are rich women in Eng- 
land who want a friend to travel with them, dispense charity for 
them, help them to make the best of their lives. Among these you 
mav find one vs ho would be as a sister to you.” 

The glimmer of hope that had lighted up her face died away. She 
shook her head, and made answer almost in a desponding tone: 

” 1 cannot go into the world, and even good women might not be 
kind to me. 1 yearn for a little kindness, but 1 will not be cast 
down,” she added, as she caught Arthur’s sorrowful glance. “You 
hear how easily 1 speak your language. 1 am also learned iu 
Italian.” 

“ That reminds me,” Arthur broke in, with extreme animation, 
“ 1 think I do know an old lady, charming, too, who wants a young 
one to take her to Italy;” and he expatiated on the prospect all the 
more glowingly, because it had also occurred to him that he should 
very likely spend the winter in Rome himself. 

Suddenly, however, he was checked by a look of such utter misery 
on his companion’s face as to seal his lips. He sat still, blank, silent, 
dejected. Not an adequate wwd occurred to him, not a piirase in 
the whole vocabulary seemed delicate enough and emphatic enough 
for the expression of his chivalrous devotion. No dilemma could be 
more painful to a generous- minded man. Moved to passionate pit.y, 
stirred by feelings perhaps the nearest approach to magnanimity of 
a lifetime, he w^as yet frozen into silence, chilled to outer coldness, 
by the very sorrow he would fain console. 

To a man like Arthur Venning, nice in his tastes even to fastidi- 
ousness, and fashioned, although he knew it not, rather according to 
his own standard than that of the world, the very helplessness and 
appeal of this beautiful woman made her sacred in his eyes. She 
had thrown herself on his English sense of honor and manliness, and 
he must take care lest by a look or syllable he might seem to abuse 
the confidence placed in him. lie durst not offer balm or ruth; even 
a trivial expression of sympathy would be out of keeping. He could 
only hearken to her story, and vouchsafe the common kindness one 
W'uyfarer on the dusty high-road of life is bound to show another. 

“ Do not speak to me of Italy!” she cried. “ It is a fatal place. 
The forfeit — ” 

For a moment the fair cheeks were dyed with crimson, then she 
broke oft ‘and went on proudly and collectedly: 

“ You have promised to help a forlorn lady to earn her bread. If 
I am more outspoken to you than 1 should be— if 1 confide things to 
you 1 ought hardly to confide to any one, much less a man and a 
stranger, it is because from my childhood upward 1 have been taught 
that an Englishman’s word may be relied on.” 

Arthur listened with sealed lips. 


LOVE AKD MIRAGE. 51 

He had spoken once on his own behalf. Would a dozen speeches 
lenii force to his simple yea or nay? 

“ Ton cannot help me unless you know something of my history,” 
she went on, hurriedly and fearfully, as if dreading lest time might 
not serve for all that she had to say. ‘‘ I have not a friend in the 
world, and 1 am in the power of bad people. How can I leave this 
island and get secretly to England? Will you ivy to think of a 
plan? Englishwomen are great travelers; if any came here 1 could 
return with them.” 

The wistfiilness, the almost agonized look of entreaty, wrung 
Arthur’s heart. All kinds of projects flashed before his mind. He 
would write that very day to some of his pleasant woman friends, 
and urge upon them the seductions of a Baltic trip. Belter still, he 
would think of some school -mrstress or music-teacher in w^ant of a 
holiday, and thus procure the necessary protection. Vague hopes 
and promises in plenty his interlocutor now read in the young man’s 
face. 

” It must be done soon,” she added, in the same quick, agitated 
tones. ” 1 could get away in September.” 

Arthur’s countenance cleared. 

“ There is, fortunately, time then for making the necessary ar- 
rangements,” be said, promptly and cheerfully. He was determined, 
at all costs to himself, to be sternly matter-of-fact. ” I can turn 
over in ray mind the best means of furthering your wishes. Mean- 
time,” he added, with an encouraging smile, “ who can tell what 
may or may not happen? Friends of mine might arrive unex- 
pectedly any day from England, or touch here on their way back 
from Norway. I need only commend to their protection a foreign 
lady desirous' of going to England. Can I write to you?” 

” It will be better not to do so. 1 will let you know how to com- 
municate with me wdien the time comes,” she replied, rising. ” How 
long do you stay on this island?” 

As long as 1 can serve you, were the passionate words on Arthur’s 
lips. He checked himself, and made answer m the most indifferent 
voice he could command : 

” 3Iy time is at my own disposal; I am absolutely free to go or 
stay. It will give me real pleasure it I can be of use to you.” 

” I will send you a sign,” she said. ” Your address I learned on 
the occasion of your first visit to the palace.” 

” The address matters little, but do not forget the name, Arthur 
Venning. A letter bearing that superscription will find me anywhere 
on the island.” 

” And my prayers shall find you wherever you are,”.w^as the 
tearful answer. 

As she lingered before him, so beautiful in her sadness, so sad in 
her beauty, they interchanged the yearning look that one human be- 
ing may well accord another in moments of supreme emotion, even 
when the next shall see them strangers. There was no sentiment on 
Ids part, no feminine feeling on hers; instead, deep, unutterable 
sympathy stirring the hearts of both, and an understanding with 
which his passionate adndration, and her own consciousness of it, had 
nothing to do. Never in his life had anything touched him so nearly 
as this loveliness, this desolation; not until now did she realize the 


62 


LOVE AKD MIRAGE. 


healing there may be in a brave man’s word. But for once sex and 
personality were mer^^ed in something higher than these, and the pair 
embodied in each other’s ej^es divine compassion and intense grati- 
tude only. 

And as if anxious to express an emotion she could not put into 
words, having risen to go, she turned back. With a little sob and a 
wistful smile she now unfastened the knot of white flowers worn on 
her bosom, and put them into his hands. V/" hat eloquence could 
have said so much? Those silvery, star-shaped blossoms were the 
thanksgiving of one who had not so much as a word to give, the 
benison of a breaking heart. 

Strangely moved, Arthur put away the flowers in his pocket-book 
and strolled back to the palace, with little heart for the jovial 
bachelor’s dinner to come. He longed now, as keenly as Hervey, to 
be well out of the precincts, although the way back should lead to 
perplexity, retribution, and Elizabeth. 

Elizabeth, Elizabeth! What was there in a fair girl’s name to dis- 
quiet a young man thus? But even the name he had found so sweet 
seemed unreal and remote to Arthur now. Was the fancy of 5^es- 
treen already supplanted by a deeper feeling? Was this new empire 
love indeed? the other dream and shadow^? 

Arthur came to the conclusion, while hopelessly distracted by these 
thoughts, that at least he was no longer free to wander and to love. 
He had often regretted the unemotional current of his existence, and 
even reproached himself for an apparent want of susceptibility to 
the passions that consume other men. Now love had asserted its 
claim, and instead of scant measure dealt out to him, a very foison 
of love and deliciousness promised to be his portion. 

“ But the future lay veiled in mystery, 

Hid are the threads of destiny.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

INTERLUDES. 

The rest of the visit passed oft uneventfully. The same faultless 
dinner, the same flow of talk, the same acquisitiveness on the part 
of host and response on that of guests. In certain social relations 
there need be no question of personal liking; we accord and accept 
hospitality without going below sympathies skin deep, and inclina- 
tions that lie on the surface. The prince and his visitors parted 
company with graceful compliments that meant nothing, and ex- 
pressions of regard called forth by the occasion. They should never 
meet apin, but had done their best to be agreeable to one another 
while intercourse lasted. Next day, before nightfall, the travelers 
were iri their old quarters. Hervey hastened down to the hanging- 
garden by the shore, hoping to find Flora under the lime-trees; 
Arthur shut himself up in his room, to ponder the letter he must 
dispatch by to-morrow’s boat. 

First of all he thoue-ht and thought till he had satisfactorily made 
out the history of his beautiful suppliant. He knew German mid- 
dle-class life well, and the splendid intellectualism of it, the sordid 


I.OVE AKD MIRAGE* 


53 


penury of it, and viewed by the light of past experiences, it seemed 
to him perfectly comprehensible that Italy might be as the apple to 
some beautiful and beauty-loving Gierman Eve born in these latter 
days. A vivid picture soon composed itself before his mental 
vision. He imagined a struggling farnilj'-, and perhaps narrow- 
minded circle, of which one gitted girl was the paragon, condemned 
nevertheless to a tread-mill of toil for daily bread. On a sudden 
the prison -doors fly open. Love and Italy await her! The artistic 
cravings and intellectual aspirations suppressed for years are to be 
satisfied at last. IShe loves, and in her lover finds not only the 
beauty which is to hef as a religion, but the sympathy as necessary 
to an ardent and poetic nature as air itself. 

Musing thus, Arthur thought he could understand how here even 
a delicate-minded and proud maiden might fall into a snare. There 
would be passion on the man’s side, and no lack of arguments on 
behalf of the sacrifice demanded of her. Might not a young noble- 
man, wooing the daughter of some poor pastor or professor, plausibly 
plead his cause thus: “ 1 am not now my own master, but the bond 
between you and me shall be sacred, and the first day that makes me 
umpire of my fortunes shall seal it in the eyes of men ”? 

And to the mind of an unworldly, magnanimous girl, implicitly 
trusting her lover's word, the very nature of such a bond would 
seem to guarantee after-confirmation. Other and subtler reasonings 
on his part might apparently justify the step. A thousand circum- 
stances might go against her. Is not feminine generosity over- 
reached by a man’s reckless word every day? 

Arthur sat down to write, with the unshakable conviction that his 
protegee was the victim, not the tool, of a worldling’s selfishness. 
If ever a fair spirit matched a beauteous body, it was hers. The 
pathos of wrong, rather than of remorse, was written on her face. 
More sinned against than sinning was inscribed on that pure fore- 
head. Were it otherwise, cannot mortal lapse be washed out with 
bitter tears? Is not the misguided soul ofttimes nearer the angels 
than those who keep the beaten track? 

With such thoughts as these, Arthur penned a very long letter, 
indeed, on this lady’s behalf. He had bethought himself of a 
former’ music-mistress of his own, of whom he had never lost sight, 
as the very person to help him out of this charming dilemma. She 
was pinched in circumstances, elderly, and not too rich in friends. 
It would be easy, he thought, to induce her to give the stranger a 
home, even make the journey from London to escort her, if neces- 
sary. 

Arthur was by no means rich, but he could lay hands on a hun- 
dred pounds in order to gratify a generous whim, and he reflected 
that it he put two seas between his beautiful charge and her sorrow, 
the rest would be easy. She would learn to forget. Under his 
friend’s quiet roof there would be nothing to recall the past. She 
should be amused by giving German lessons; §he should gradually 
be won over lo smile and to hope. 

There was real benevolence, as well as chivalrous sentiment, at 
the bottom of Arthur’s schemes, and the thought struck him oddly, 
as it might, methinks, strike many another. When did 1 ever go out 
of my way to mend a breaking heart? This fastidious, easy-going, 


54 


LOVE AKB MIEAGE. 




liiffhly-oultiired Londoner possessed a conscience, "but somehow or 
other it had not been touched as often as might be. But the chival- 
rous feeling here predominated, and it could hardly be otherwise. 
If the consciousness of a kindly act warmed his heart, the gratitude 
of a beautiful woman, in no less degree, warmed his imagination. 
A deeper chord was touched still. This girl had appealed to all that 
was best and manliest within him, and in responding to the call, he 
felt that she it was who played the part of benefactor and good 
genius. Are not those who inspire us with a noble impulse our 
guardian angels ever? 

The letter he penned was a very long ancL deliberate one, and in 
its folds was inclosed a check. “It may happen,” he wrote, by 
way of postscript, “ that I shall have to telegraph to you quite sud- 
denly to come out here, or, which will do quite as well, delegate 
some one of 5mur acquaintance, in order to accompany this lady 
back to England. Why she cannot travel alone, and all other ques- 
tions, 1 will answer when we meet. The only think to be thought of 
now is to procure her an escort and a home till she can decide 
upon what to do in the future. She is to know nothing about this 
check, of course. As an old friend of mine you offer her shelter for 
a few weeks. That explanation will be enough, and at this season 
of the year your journey hither would have nothing extraordinary 
about it. 1 am sure you will go out of j'-our way to second an old 
pupil whom you scolded for false notes twenty years ago, and you 
will learn to feel as much interest in my protegee as 1 do. But take 
no steps till you hear from me.” 

Most carefully and circumstantially was the letter worded, yet, 
strangely enough, when the moment came to consign it to the post, 
Arthur locked it up in his desk instead. 

This little romance was all his own; he could not bear the thought 
of another so much as breathing near it. And the natural, feminine 
curiosity of this soft-hearted, admirable music-mistress, a romance 
herself, albeit travestied by the embonpoint of fifty, would any in- 
junction on his part suffice to keep her inquisitiveness? 

Terribly, yet rapturously perplexed, he at last decided to leave the 
letter where it was for the present. There was luckily yet time, 
and, in the summer, letters crossed these seas ev^ry day. Hercould 
afford to dwell on the problem a little longer. 

Next morning Hervey dashed into his room with great news. 
The fishermen’s ball was to take place that afternoon in the forest. 
Everybody was going, and the sight would be captivating, he said, 
all in a breath. 

“Everybody? That means Flora?” Arthur said, slyly. “Seri- 
ously, now, Hervey, what are you thinking of? Flirtation has its 
limits for a man to contemplate mariiage who has never so much as 
earned a sixpence with which to pay his boot-cleaner.” 

Hervey was also in an exhilarated humor. “1 never coveted a 
carriage and pair,” he answered. “ When I take a wife, fashion 
and 1 part company. ” 

“ A man may be a decent member of society without having his 
clothes made by a royal tailor,” laughed Arthur; “but nakedness 
must be covered, and the digestive machine kept agoing.” 

“You forget one thing,” retorted the younger brother. “ Flora 


LOVE AKD MIKAGE. 55 

is a German, and Germans know how to live delightfully upon a 
hunared a year. Well, you will go to the ball, ot course?” 

” Ot course. Will Elizabeth dance with me, do you think?” 

Hervey looked disconcerted, 

“ 1 do not understand Elizabeth,” he said; “ she seems positively 
to resent our visit to the palace. How could it possibly be interpret- 
ed as a slight upon herself?” 

” How indeed?” was Arthur’s careless answer. But when Her- 
vey had left him, his thoughts recurred to the question he had 
mooted. Wby had Elizabeth all along shown such strange aver- 
sion to the prince’s name? 

Arthur recollected well her look of disconcertion when the prince- 
ly chase had been accidentally mentioned. There was no misread- 
ing the cold disapproval written on her face justbetore his departure 
with Hervey lor the palace. Then he recalled their talk at the light- 
house. She had spoken of a broken word and outraged honor. 
Could these things point to but one conclusion? The lovely, ingenu- 
ous Elizabeth must have been wooed by one of the prince’s kins- 
men; and, through his instrumentality, he being head of the house, 
these betrothals had been annulled. In Elizabeth’s eyes the prince 
evidently embodied disloyalty itself; in no other way was such bit- 
ter feeling on the part of an amiable girl to be accounted for. He 
determined to have a close talk with Elizabeth as soon as might be 
— that very afternoon, if possible. It behooved him to get at the 
bottom of her mysteries and to find out how it stood with her heart; 
for in the midst of these vague reflections a disturbing conviction 
made itself heard, lie had already gone too far to draw back. 
Those last lover-like words whispered in her ear could not be misin- 
terpreted or unsaid. He was free no longer. 

Now Arthur, without possessing the heroic qualities, was endowed 
with one virtue which often counts for much more. To his some- 
what cold, well-disciplined nature, crookedness was simply impossi- 
ble in the least little thing. He must see whither he was going, and 
have the ground clear, no complications, no half understandings, 
least of all, no shufilings. The thought that his extraordinary inter- 
est in his beautiful protegee might be disloyalty to Elizabeth grew 
more and more hateful to him. He could not let a day go by in 
uncertainty. Either Elizabeth should claim him for once and for 
all, or that sadder, lovelier vision, that somehow strangely reminded 
him of her. 

Arthur had doubtless a touch of romance in his disposition — what 
human being is without it? Taken by this sweet Teutonic maiden 
as he had never been taken by any other woman till a week ago, he 
yet acknowledged a feeling of dismay. 

Love is sweet, and the look of certain blue eyes may open a new 
kind of heaven in manly breasts; but diabit is tyrannical, and lib- 
erty hath charms. To fall in love is to catch a first glimpse of 
Edelweiss on Alpine slopes. To determine on marriage is to strive 
for the prize, maybe easily won and worn, maybe a clutch at a 
bagatelle, or a smiling plunge into destruction. 


56 


LOYE AND MIRAGE. 


CHAPTER XVn. 

IDYLS. 

Nothing could be prettier than the rustic jollity prepared by the 
fisher-tolk for their guests. The site chosen was a fair, open space 
in the very heal t of the forest, with park-like knolls and beechen 
groves affording rich shadow round about, A smooth circle of 
golden sward was set apart for the dancei-s, and a little beyond, the 
flame of gyps}^ fires and fisher-maidens, bustling about tables cov- 
ered with snowy napkins, betokened the preparation of coffee. On 
the lower branches of the encircling trees were hung Chinese lan- 
terns, which lent the scene a festive look, the effect of these bright 
colors being heightened by the gay dresses of the ladies. The cele- 
bration was entirely popular, and rich and poor had turned out to 
take part in it: but as costume exists no longer, even in the Cannibal 
Islands, it could hardly be looked for here. The fair-haired, apple- 
cheeked daughters of these sturdy islanders, descendants of pirate 
kings of the olden time, were dressed every whit as modishly as the 
belles of Northern capitals, who had come so far in search of the 
picturesque. Not an outlandish head-gear to be seen, not one pig- 
tailed, short-kirtled Gretchen among the bevy of home-bred beau- 
ties, nor were the men bedizened after the manner of their fore- 
fathers. The chimney-pot hat, the frock-coat, the pantaloon, formed 
the Sunday dress of the poorest. After all, let aesthetes tear their 
hair and wring their hands over the vanished costumes that made 
the world so pretty. All who care tor the moral uplifting and 
social regeneration of our poorer brethren Know that deepest wisdom 
and highest promise underlie this imitative instinct on their part. 
When all the world are clothed like ladies and gentlemen, all the 
world will strive after the ideal contained in the words, not the least 
feature of which is decorum and gentleness in speech and behavior. 
B}’’ dress is the divine doctrine of equality to be preached, from one 
end of the globe lo the other. Here, moreover, equality was no fic- 
tion, even on Prussian soil. The fisherman might invite a titled 
fraulein to the waltz, the village girl, without shame, accept the 
hand of a grandee for the cotillpn. All was geniality and neigh- 
borly feeling. Arthur and Hervey were soon busjMimong the coffee- 
cups, serving not only Elizabeth and Flora but any womankind 
who happened to be handy. Then, flushed with the heat of the 
gypsy fires, and breathless with running to and fro in company of 
other cavaliers, they made raids upon the cakes piled in neighboring 
stalls. It was a scene of indescribable enjoyment. Everybody was 
hot, not a gown without its tear, yet all faces showed exhilaration. 
Why merry-making out-of-doors should always raise our spirits may 
be accounted for in the fact that Nature compels naturalness, strive 
against her as we will. The footmark of fauns and satyrs still lin- 
gers in the forest; something, we know not what, reminds us that 
the pranksome world of Eld hath not wholly vanished. 

By-and-by, according to local fashion, the procession formed tor 


LOVE AXD MIRAGE, 


57 

the dance, young and old making the round of the woodland cirque 
in couples to the slow time of music, llervey, enchanted, led oil 
Flora; Arthur, somewhat crestfallen, saw Elizabeth already paired 
with an elderly partner, no other than the fisherman at whose house 
she lodged. 1'his worthy pci-sonage never danced but once a year, 
and always upon these occasions demanded tJie hand of one of the 
prettiest guests in the place— a favor readily accorded, as he was a 
famous boatman, and well known to all. But the luck ran against 
Arthur. Dressed in white, with blue corn-flowers in her hair and 
on her bosom, Elizabeth seemed possessed by the very ge7iius of 
dancing just then. She had hardly dismissed her first partner when 
another came up — a gray-haired colonel, a table-d'hote acquaintance 
— to claim a promise of three weeks’ standing; then a little lad who 
had been similarly favored, then a still younger child, just able to 
toddle through the quadrille. 

Sparkling, animated, rosy, Elizabeth had evidently made up her 
mind to fling care to the winds for that afternoon. 

Arthur fancied himself avoided because he reminded her of things 
she would fain forget. He was determined, however, to have one 
dance, and patieniiy bided his turn. At last it came. “ 1 began to 
think that you had made up your mind not to dance with me at all ; 
yet if 1 had offended, I hoped it. was not past forgiveness,” he said, 
looking rapturously at the bappy girl. Kot a five-year-old coquette 
in the sash and white frock showed more contentment than Eliza- 
beth just then. 

“ You had not offended me, but 1 am bound to dance with all my 
particular friends. I have not danced for 3 ’'ears; it delights me 
beyond measure.” 

“ Because you do it so beautifully.” 

“Every one dances well in our countr}'-, although, of course, 
some better than others. If you had only seen my sisteid” she said. 

“ 1 have been watching Miss Flora. 1 hardly think her perform- 
ance comes up to the level of }'our own.” 

“ Oh! 1 was not thinking of Flora, but of our eldest sister — the 
one we have lost,” cried the girl, coloring painfully. 

A dark thought had overshadowed her bright mood against her 
will; the gaysome fit dropped from her as a garment. She would 
dance no more that day. 

“ Look at Flora and your brother,” Elizabeth said, as they rested 
under the lime-trees within sight of the dancers. “ Why cannot 
you and 1 be as light-hearted as those two?” 

She had then detected his owm preoccupation and skin-deep care- 
lessness, thought Arthur. How it fared wdth the pair of young 
lovers waltzing just then so merrily it was easy to see; would a 
better opportunity come for finding out how it "stood with them- 
selves? 

“ That is a question no other can answer for us. Let us for once 
and for all get to the bottom of things. Speak— or listen,” he said. 

“ 1 have not the courage to speak, and till 1 have spoken 1 dare 
not listen,” answered Elizabeth. 

“ If summer lasted longer ilian two months in this sweet place, 
and life were all holiday, 1 should be the last person to rebel against 


58 


LOVE AND MIRAGE. 


such a state of things,” rejoined Arthur. “ Yet what more can this 
island give me than the thing 1 came to seek?” 

‘‘ But the sorrow I fled from follows me still. Flora is a child, 
and concerns herself about nothing so long as the sun. shines. 1 
cannot help looking deeper.” 

‘‘The deeper you look the more valorous you should become,” 
Arthur said. ” Why this shrinking from me? Am I not your 
friend?” 

“Yes,” said Elizabeth, firmly and almost affectionately; “ 1 have 
no misgiving wdiere your loyalty is concerned. True you are, I am 
sure, arid brave too. It is your very generosity that makes me hesi- 
tate; 1 fear to put it to a test that might make even my friendship 
for you bitterness and r ue. ’ ’ 

“Friendship! friendship!” cried Arthur. “May we not use a 
dearer, better word, you and I? So I have dreamed and hoped.” 

“No, no,” Elizabeth made answer, evidently torn by inner con- 
* flict, shrinking, notwithstanding, from a stern sense of duly, (he 
sweetness and solace implied in liis words. 

“ I must not, 1 dare riot, let our intimacy go further. What room 
is there for better feelings in a heart overflowing with hate? We 
can be good friends, and some time or other I may summon up 
courage to unburden myself to you; but by word of mouth never!” 

“You shall write to me,” Arthur put in kindly. Strange that 
with this beautiful girl, as with (hat other whose image was ever 
before his eyes, he had to play the part of consoler! Elizabeth’s 
sorrow seemed at times hardly less deep and absorbing than the 
grief of the unknown lady; in both cases how flatteringly welcome 
his consolations and sjmrpathy! 

“ Some day or other you shall certainly have a letter from me,” 
Elizabeth said, smiling. “ Y’'ou will then understand these foolish, 
childish thoughts 1 have often given utterance to in your hearing — 
requital, revenge, and so forth. How absurd to count upon redress 
for such wrongs as mine! How sinful to nurse in one’s bosom plans 
of vengeance and retribution! We must ofttimes leave the wicked 
in God’s hands.” 

“ And in the devil’s!” laughed Arthur. “ That is to say, to their 
evil conscience. Never fear that it does not sting.” 

“ Have all human beings a conscience, think you?” 

“ Something that takes the place of one, anyhow. Something 
that makes people fear, and fear is hell; oherwise, why do the most 
atrocious criminals ever show a craven spirit?” 

Arthur never doubted that Elizabeth was dwelling upon her own 
story. She had been brought to trust an unworthy lover, and 
womanly pride rather than outraged feeling had spoken out now. 

His words seemed to satisfy her. 

“ It must be so,” she mused, “ otherwise, all keenest pain would 
be endured by the true and the lofty minded only. God would not 
permit such an injustice. Surely the gall and bitterness of wicked- 
ness are tasted by the wicked themselves!” 

She lapsed into silence, and Arthur humored her mood. These 
girlish confidences could but be very sweet, and if she had gently, 
yet firmly, degraded him from (he rank of lover to friend, there was 
a melancholy consolation in that thought also. A newer, deeper 


LOVE AND Mill AGE. 


69 


interest was no Ioniser a treachery to his feeling for her. He might 
freely indulge in other hopes and recollections. All things, at l^st 
to^M time, were made clear as day between tliem. 

When Elizabeth woke up from her reverie her mood was altered. 
She spoke now with alacrity, whether natural or affected he could 
not tell, and seemed anxious to toucffon lighter themes. She asked 
him a dozen questions about his stay at the light-house; then, after 
having played round the subject, she led up to his late visit. 

“ How captivating is our island! and nowhere more so than on 
that southern part. And the lime-trees at the Residency!'’ she cried. 
“ 111 Berlin we boast of lindens that look as if they came out of a 
child’s toy village. Can the world show nobler trees than those in 
the prince’s park?” 

‘‘ In good sooth, no,” Arthur said, carried away by her evident 
enthusism, ‘‘ And the palace itself, with its marbre colonnades and 
rose-garden about its fairy lake! 1 think I never saw a place that 
more struck my imagination.” 

” I have never been inside the palace,” Elizabeth went on, in calm, 
slightly artiticial tones. ‘‘ They tell me it is more captivating with- 
in than without— a reminder of Haroun-al-Raschid. Are tliese re- 
ports exaggerated?” 

” 1 do assure you, not in the least,” Arthur said, forgetting for 
the moment her apparent distaste to this very subject. ” There is a 
Titian, a Tintoi^tto, a Velasquez, and dazzling splendors of a modern 
date. All these you should see.” 

Elizabeth listened coldly. It was quite clear that she wanted to 
learn more, but hesitated to show her inquisitiveness. 

“ Was the party at the palace an agreeable one?” she asked. 

“ We were but four,” Arthur said: ‘‘the prince, his secretary, 
my brother, and myself.” 

Elizabeth’s face still betokened curiosity. She turned red, then 
pale; finally taking up her fan and using it as vigorously as it they 
were in a crowded drawing-room rather than a cool forest nook, 
she got out the query, 

“ Then the prince is not married?” 


CHAPTER XVni. 

A PASTORAL. 

The fisherman’s ball ended for most folk at the children’s bed- 
time; and while the sun yet gilded the rim of the upper forest world, 
many were already wending their way homeward. How wonderful 
was the path, one of many, found by the too happy Flora and her 
knight Hervey, as they separated from their friends, determined to 
have at least this one walk by themselves! Elizabeth would frown, 
and Flora was in mortal terror of her elder sister’s righteous anger; 
could Elizabeth’s anger ever be otherwise? But just to-day Flora 
felt a little reckless and even audjicious. The dance out-of-doors, 
the feeling of festivity in the air, the music ringing through the 
woodland, exhilarated her beyond measure. She hoped, although 
she did not feel sure of it, that these things would in some degree 


60 LOVE MIRAGE. 

affect Elizabeth also, and that she would make allowance for con- 
duct arising from feelings she shared. From the natural cirque 
high up on" the crown of the forest that had been chosen for the 
dance, a dozen paths led homeward; and Flora, who acted as guide, 
naturally chose the most romantic, if indeed there was any choice in 
this island of romance. They„first of all scrambled down the sides 
ot a charming little ravine, the abrupt, tangled path leading into a 
cool, quiet glade, where not a sign reached them of the upper world 
or the lower — alike forest and sea v/ere here utterly shut out from 
ken. flora laughingly put her finger to her lip, and, listening, 
Hervey caught one sound — a low, musical murmur of hidden 
waters, although, as yet, no rivulet or brook was to be seen. 

“ We must find the brook and follow it, or we shall lose our 
way,” Flora said; and on the other side ot the glade, true enough, 
they soon discovered a little mountain rivulet, trickling and tossing 
over a pebbly bed, making as much ado, indeed, as many a broad 
stream. Down it ran, between ferny banks and mossy stones, at 
every bend showing miniature cascades and wears, the white crests 
of the tumblinj; w^aters and the large, creamy agaric tlie only points 
of light in the dark picture. Here and there gleamed, duskily, deep 
orange poziza and other flowers of the underworld, and when they 
came to an opening they caught sight of a sun-ray gilding the upper 
region now left far behind. Around them all was coolness and 
deep shadow, but no monotony, eveiy bend of the Ifttlfe torrent lead- 
ing into new scenes; like a tricksy sprite playing at hide-and seek, 
it now hid itself behind a huge \ree-stem, now dived deep into a 
tiny comb, and now slowly and deliberately meandered amid sedges 
dark as itself. This ^ramesome elf was up to a hundred antics, and 
never left the happy lovers for more than a minute or two at a time. 
It seemed to have fellowship with their captious, uncertain mood — 
sweetest mood, perhaps, in which lovers ever find themselves — on 
the brink of a perfect understanding, at the same time willing and 
unwilling to attain it. 

The artless girl knew as well as words could have told her what 
was on Hervey’s lips — the secret of two or three delicious weeks 
hitherto not divulged by speech; and Hervey felt no misgivings, no 
playing with happy fate, no toying with sweet convictions on the 
part of this transparent-natured maiden. All with her was fair and 
legible as the blue eyes that opened to her lover’s as a book. Flora’s 
mission in the world was to lore and to smile, no despicable one 
seeing how much the toiling, moiling world is in need of love and 
smiles. 

Love came not so much a surprise, perhaps, to the eighteen-ycar- 
old Flora as to the London-bred man of the world, almost ten years 
her senior. Hervey had caught his brother’s trick of jesting at 
serious things — courtship and marriage among them — without tak- 
ing account of" the deeper feeling underlying Arthur’s apparent 
skepticism. In sober fact Arthur" only waited for a perfect woman 
to fall in love and marry; and all the time Hervey listened to his 
jests in sober earnest, and acted upon them, Arthur kept a steady 
lookout lest his ideal should escape him. So impossible is it for 
the lesser nature to comprehend the larger! As a natural conse* 


LOVE AKD MIRAGE. 61 

quence, we who imitate our betters, oftener aim at their weaknesses 
rather than their strong points. 

Arthur had seemed to Hold himself above sentiment, and Hervey 
could not choose but follow suit. On a sudden he woke up to the 
discovery, and a pleasant one loo. that, after all, his brother and him- 
self were not superior beings, but prone to make themselves ridicu- 
lous; in other words, fall in love like ordinary mortals. Thus they 
strayed homeward, following the stieam, one moment shy and 
monosyllabic, the next audacious and voluble. They were quiet 
when the rivulet just plashed, and that was all; the moment it bat- 
tled noisily they also became gairulous. It had led them lower and 
lower, and ever into deeper shadow; warm amber light still lingered 
about the high reaches of the forest, but their own litlle world, dusk 
and cool at all times, was now growing more and more obscure, the 
lovely green light turning every dell and glade into a solemn place. 
With the bendings and windings of the river, they had passed from 
one scene of enchantment to another, and finally it landed them on 
a grassy stage, where the wood ended; and "the open, park-like 
spaces skirting it began. 

One slope more and the corn-fields would be reached, and the 
narrow little village street leading to the sea. Already they had be- 
fore their eyes an arc of pale blue, and set round about broad 
stretches of ripe, yellow wheat. In helping his companion over the 
brooklet Hervey had been obliged to take her hand, and somehow, 
after crossing it for the last time, he still retained his hold. 

Flushed, sparkling, a stranger to herself in the moment of first 
girlish abandonment. Flora saw that her lover was equally distracted 
and happy. Hervey seemed suddenly overtaken by extraordinary 
self-confidence. His dauntless demeanor and airy post should have 
belonged indeed to one bent on far more startling emprise than the 
winning of a gentle maiden’s hand. He looked, indeed, as if by 
anticipation he had already accomplished some tremendous exploit. 
Nothing nxagnifies us so much in our own estimation as first love, 
and Hervey and Flora were no less enchanted with each other and 
themselves than two little children just able to toddle, who have 
rubbed cheeks and made friends. 

“ You will let me speak to Elizabeth to-morrow, will you not?” 
at last Hervey said, conscious of doing the beautiful thing he had to 
do in the most awkward manner possible. 

Flora lauglied gayly and arched her pretty brows. ” You talk to 
Elizabeth every day without asking m}''* leave, ”'she said; then 
blushing, she flitted like a shy liltle bird from the tempting snare. 
” 1 know what we shall both get to morrow, a scolding.” , 

” Nonsense,” Hervey answered; “ Elizabeth has no right to scold 
me, and soon she shall have no right to scold you either. Listen, be 
serious,” he added, making her lor a moment sit on the turf beside 
him. “Things are very desperate. Flora, 1 believe, between my 
brother and your sister, but anyhow between us two. i want you 
to marry me this very year. Why wait,” he blurted out, “since 
we love* each other?” 

Flora let one litlle hand rest within her lover’s while she spoke out 
openly and daringly as himself. This new friend had, on a sudden, 
become so ver^ close and dear! Her secrets must be his, lathe 


62 


LOVE AKD 3IIEAGE. 


least as well as gieatest of liis concernments she was henceforth to 
bear a part. The sense of acquisition and enlargement that promptlj- 
took possession of her was sweet and bewildering. 

“ 1 dare not disobey Elizabeth,” she said, overcome with joyous- 
ness and sad misgiving. ” It she separates us, 1 am bound to sub 
mit; but I shall alwa 3 '^s love you all the same.” 

“ Nonsense,” again urged flervey, finding piquancy in the use of 
such unceremonious speech, already, as he thought, a guarantee of 
the sweet, unceremonious life to come. ” Vly little girl, my own 
Flora, }^ou have only to say a word, and not tlie whole world, much 
less Elizabeth, can separate us.” 

Flora hearkened, blushing, tearful,' blissful, yet unconvinced. 

” Elizabeth made me promise long ago never to— to — to do any- 
thing without consulting her,” she stammered. ‘‘Elizabeth says 
that I must never dream of marrying, because of the misfortune and 
disgrace that have befallen our family.” 

‘‘Misfortune, disgrace!” cried the young man, sturdily; he had 
never felt so manly and self-confident in his life. ” Are you to be 
made unhappy because of the rnisdeeds of others? All the more 
reason why ^mu should be loved and protected, as I will love and 
protect you. ’ ’ 

The pair were alone in their little world of cool, green, and deepen- 
ing shadow, not so much as a bird to espy their doings. Quite un- 
pardonably Hervey caught her for a moment, lover like, in his arms, 
and snatched a first kiss from her rosy lips. 

” Bay all that to Elizabeth,” Flora whispered. 

‘‘But I deny Elizabeth’s right to interfere,” Hervey went on. 
” When Arthur asks her to marry him, as of course he will, take 
my word for it, she will never dream of consulting you.” 

‘‘ Elizabeth is five j^ears older than 1 am.” 

‘‘ And Arthur is my senior also. Brothers and sisters have no 
jurisdiction over each other, and only self-assumed authority. 1 
never dreamed, for instance, of telling Arthur that 1 intended to 
speak to you to-day.” 

” With men it is different,” Flora said. “We have no mother, 
remember, and our father is incapable of taking care of us. It is 
Elizabeth’s affection, not her love of authoiity, that makes her seem 
to domineer. She saj-^s that we are bound to disclose our family his- 
tory before accepting an offer ol marriage.” 

“ Marry me first, and 1 will listen to as much family history as 
you like afterward,” Hervey saicT, growing more and more defiiint; 
“ or at least promise to marry me.” 

“ No, Elizabeth would be displeased. But 1 promise never to 
marry any one else,” P’lora answered. 

“ 1 will talk to your sister; I will win her over. Arthur may say 
that my means are insufficient, but we will be very economical. 1 
am sure two people can be as happy as the day is long on three hun- 
dred a year.” 

Flora opened her blue eyes with childish delight. The sum had a 
handsome, nay, maguificent sound in her German ears. “Three 
hundred a 3 ^ear, indeed! 1 would undertake to keep house on one!” 

“Not in England,” laughed Hervey; and so they prattled on 
about marriage and money and tho countless topics that after the 


LOVE AND MIEAGE. 


63 

first whisper of love become common property. Then all at once 
aroused to the fact that the woods had crrown very dark, and night 
was alarmingly near, they hastened home with the air ot belated 
children who expect a v/hipping. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

CATASTROPHES. 

And next day, Sunday, how blessed were the young lovers as they 
attended divine service in the open air, forest church, Waldkirche, 
as the island folk called it, for no other was near. Baptisms, bridals, 
and burials were solemnized in the Dom of the little capital, that, 
perched on its airy height, could be seen from almost every part of 
the island; and in winter resolute church goeis from remote vil- 
lages plodded thither through the snow, the undertaking only just 
being accomplished in the brief winter day. When leaves were 
green, and mossy banks afforded pleasant resting-places, nothing 
more delightful than this woodland-temple kind of amphitheater 
had been made in the forest. The pastor’s gown and cassock w^ere 
in readiness, hanging on a tree hard by, and when the congregation 
had patiently awaited his arrival for half an hour or more, at last he 
came. How Flora’s sweet, well-liained voice thrilled with joy as 
she joined in the grand old Lutheran hymn by her lover’s side! 
How rapturously the young Londoner gave way to these nai ve, gen- 
uine emotions! Perhaps the sermon fell on careless ears, but the 
first pra3"er in which they joined in this forest aisle seemed a sacred 
bond. What passed afterward between the sisters Hervey did not 
learn as yet, but next morning when he met Flora on the shoie just 
below the little garden, her eyes were red with weeping. 

They could not be alone in these narrow, winding ways between 
the beechen wood and the sea, so they took the first steep path that 
led upward. Cool and fragrant were these dappled glades and close- 
set spinets of larch and pine just above the unruffled bay. The 
wide world could surely show no sweeter place, to-day as alwaj^ 
all the more poetic and soothing from the absence of intense color 
and sharp lights and shadows. A subdued twilight radiance wraps 
this fair island — fair perhaps as Eden’s, described for us by pearl- 
divers in Indian seas. The flowers of these hanging-gardens are of 
hardy northern growth, yet they fling a rich mantle about the nether 
parts ot the ancient forest. And deep and somber the forest shadows 
above; no turquois sea, no golden sands, no dazzling heavens here; 
eveiy scene we gaze on rests alike the eye and tlie mind. 

Little heed, however, paid poor weeping Flora to the delicious 
world she had waked up to tliat morning. She was with Hervej', 
silting beside him on the very bench they had chosen during their 
first walk together; he was her own true friend, to be the husband 
ot her choice, yet she was crying now as if her little heai’t would 
break. 

And at last the disconcerted lover got out the reason. This was 
to be a parting. That very day Elizabeth was going to take her 
away. 


64 


LOVE AKD MIRAGE. 


“ Not on account of what you said to me last night,” Flora got 
out between her sobs. “ Elb.abeth seemed hardly vexed, hardly 
astonished even, but something else has happened; I may not tell 
you what now, and in consequence everything is settled. We are 
to leave the island this very afternoon.” 

” 1 will see your sister; she cannot refuse to hear what T have to 
say,” Hervey cried. ” Or, I have a better plan still; I shall go with 
you.” 

The meaning of a lover began to dawn upon Flora’s artless mind 
in right good earnest. Hervey, then, would cling to her whatever 
might happen. Love did not mean only a stolen kiss and the sweet 
confidences of two, but a bond, a duty, a fellowship that, once called 
into existence, would tell upon ever}’’ incident ol life. Her sorrow's, 
her joys, her common days were no longer her own; love made them 
Hervey’s business also. Even Elizabeth could not have it otherwise. 

” Go with you, or follow after, if your sister offers any objection 
to the first plan,” Hervey went on. “ The road to Bremen lies open 
to all. She may refuse my escort; she cannot forbid the railway to 
give me accommodation.” 

He was smiling and confident in spite of Flora’s distress, not able 
indeed to see why an abrupt departure need prove a terrible mis- 
fortune. Were there not country lanes and rustic stiles in\ iting to 
lover-like confabulations outside this island? Arthur might make 
what comments he pleased; he should at once make ready for his 
journey. 

“We are not going straight home,” Flora said. “ Elizabeth 
wishes me to have more sea-bathing. We shall stop for a week or 
two on the opposite coast.” 

She had brightened as she heard, yet he could see that one sorrow 
he had not touched. Why such m 3 'steriousness on Elizabeth’s part? 
— this sudden breaking up of a summer holiday. He looked the 
questions he could not venture to put even to his betrothed. 

“ Elizabeth will say nothing as to the reason of our departure, and 
you must put no questions to her,” Flora went on. “ Shelias other 
things to think of just now besides our afiairs. 1 am not quite sure 
that she would object to your company; she seems terribly cast 
down.” 

“ 1 fear sad tidings have reached you from home,” at last said 
the young man kindly, with almost brother-like solicitude. No curi- 
osity, only a desire to be serviceable, prompted the speech. 

“ Not from home,” Flora said, flushed and tearful. “ But I dare 
not say a word; perhaps Elizabeth will confide in you. Let us both 
go to her.” Hervey jumped from his seat with alacrity. Yes, that 
was the best thing to do, he said. There was alwa 3 's a good deal to 
think of before a hurried departure. He could put his own belong- 
ings together in a quarter of an hour. L or the present he placed 
himself entirely at the sister’s service. 

They lingered under the beechen shadow tor a whisper, a hand- 
clasp, a fond look, then went back to the little villa in the rose-gar- 
den. It was the favorite hour for bathing, and the place seemed 
deserted alike within and without, nol an occupant in any of the liny 
summer-houses perche^ above the sea, not a sound in-doors save of 
brooms being lustily plied in the upper chamber. Flora led her 


LOVE AXD MIRAGE, 


G5 


companion to the little parlor now familiar to him; but how changed 
its aspect since j^esterdaj^ No pretty work baskets, no posies of 
freshly-culled wild-flowers; on all sides that unmistakable bareness 
and coldness of the sea-side lodging, the habitation that belongs to 
nobody. Beneath the window stood a huge trunk with open lid, 
showing all kinds of hastily packed feminine treasures. Nut evi- 
dentl}’’ wearied ere her task w^as done, Elizabeth had thrown herself 
on the sofa. There Flora and Hervey found her, pale, overcome 
with bodily lassitude and dejection. 

“ Mr. Yenning wants to know it he can be of use to us,” Flora 
said, quite cheerfully. It was wondertul how Hervey’s view of the 
question inspirited and emboldened her. “ May he not come in?” 

Elizabeth looked almost too wearied to open her lips. She tried to 
smile, however, and, sitting up, began to give instructions. Hervey 
had ever been a favorite with her, and she 1 iked this unaffected good- 
nature and alacrity to serve. While Flora bustled about in the next 
room, she set him several tasks — to secure two places in the steamer 
starting for the opposite shores that afternoon; to see to the trans- 
port of luggage on board; to run hither and thither for the paying 
of visitors’ tax and depositing an address at the post-office; all these 
matters w^ould now be well oil her mind, and she thanked her hench- 
man beforehand. 

“ 1 am grieved to have to leave this sweet place in the middle of 
our summer holiday,” she said. ‘‘We have had happy days to- 
gether, Mr. Yenning; 1 shall often think of them.” 

Hervey stood before the pale girl, hat in hand, not looking in the 
least like a lover about to be separated from his mistress, much less 
dismissed altogether. Elizabeth could not understand this apparent 
indifference, almost stolidness, on the part of Flora’s faithful knight. 
Flora’s brisKness puzzled her still more. An hour before, this child 
had seerned as near despair as eighteen years can be; now she was 
making ready for departure without a sign of reluctance. 

‘‘Flora has spoken to me of your wishes,” Elizabeth went on, 
with calm decision, “ but 1 cannot think of her prospects now. She 
must not build too much on hope.” 

Then suddenly overcome with the bitterness of unspoken sorrow, 
she rested her head on the sofa-pillow, and her utterance became 
thick with tears. 

‘‘ It would make me very happy to see Flora happy with you ”— - 
here she held out one hand, wffiich the j^oung man clasped brother- 
like— ' you are kind and loyal, 1 feel sure, and would be good to 
my poor little sister; but you are an English gentleman— none so 
proud, they say. You would never wed a girl with a tarnished 
name, ally yourself with a family dishonored forever and forever!” 

Hervey spoke out bluntly, after true British fashion. 

‘‘ What family escutcheon without its blot?” he said. “ A man 
marries the woman he loves; and he loves her the better, not the 
worse, because of misfortune. Trust me with Flora’s happiness; it 
shall be safe in my keeping, let her kinsfolk be what they may.” 

‘‘You have a generous heart,” murmured Elizabeth; ‘‘I feel 
drawn toward you as to a brother. Yet 1 must not let you win my 
Flora’s love till you know all. 1 wish I could unburden myself to 
8 


66 


LOVE AE'D MIRAGE. 


you now, but 1 am too weary in body and in spirit; I had hardly 
any sleep last ni^’hl,” she added, wistfully. 

“ Do not undertake this journey to-day then; rest till to-morrow,” 
Hervey said, overcome with aftectionate concern for the pale, over- 
wrought girl. “ The delay of one day can surely be of no moment.” 

“You are wrong,” cried Elizabeth, rising from her seat with sud- 
den animation, a feverish brightness in her eyes and on her cheek. 
” Dear friend — brother if you will that 1 call you so— do not try to 
persuade me to stay. 1 shall get no more rest here. 1 came to seek 
a little happiness, a spell of oblivion, but the shadow that hangs over 
our house, the shadow whose name is shame, follows us wherever 
we go. There is a fatality about this island; help me to hasten 
away and you will be my kindest friend.” 

” Of course you must leave, if you wish it, by this afternoon’s boat,” 
Hervey said, in a pleasant, matter-of-fact voice; ” but 1 chnnot let 
you undertake this troublesome journey without escort. 1 leave this 
island then to-day as well as you.” 

” VTiiat will your brother “say? And idlers here may gossip un- 
kindly,” Elizabeth urged, after a momentary indecision. 

” Arthur has no rigid to say anything; the rest can but make a 
hazard at the truth,” Hervey said. ‘‘ What other construction 
should be put upon such a step but the right one? Four sister’s 
future husband may surely accompany you home; for when you 
leave the sea, 1 go too.” 

” Home, home!” cried Elizabeth, with an unutterable look of 
anguish. ” Little it is of a home we have now, my poor Flora 
and 1.” 

” Then we will all three make one together,” answered Hervey, 
astonished at his own audacity. ” So now 1 will go and arrange 
everything for our journey.” 

When Hervey was gone, Elizabeth once more rested on the sofa, 
with the listless aspect of one whose powers of endurance have been 
cruelly overtaxed. The beautiful glow of health and vivaciousness 
had vanished; yet the high spirited girl was suffering from no bodi- 
ly weariness, only a mental shock had wrought the change. 

As she lay thus passive amid so many claims upon her time and 
attention, something like a smile lighted up her pale face. Yes, 
Hervey ’s honest declaration was a ray of sunshine in the gloom! 
Flora, the bride of an honorable English gentleman— in Flora the 
family fortunes edified, the family honor vindicated. This seemed 
indeed cheering to think of. Elizabeth was leaving Arthur, perhaps 
without a word of farewell, but the prospect hardly dismayed, much 
less grieved her just now. Concerning her own future she could not 
speculate. Only to place the sea between her and this love-like hate, 
the clinging misery, the shadow from which there seemed no escape! 


CHAPTER XX. 

IN COUNCIL. 

Arthur was quietly sketching from his chamber-window when 
Hervey dashed in, after the merest pretense at a knock. The elder 
brother never went through this formality with his junior; but Ar- 
thur was an Etonian while Hervey still wore petticoats, and an as- 


LOVE AND MIEAGE. 


67 

sumption ot superiority had still been kept up in little things. Ar- 
thur, moreover, earned money. Hervey did not — a quite sufficient 
reaso’i tor any amount ot outvrard respect. 

“ 1 fear 1 am disturbing you,” Hervey began; ‘‘ but 1 have some- 
thing tu say. Elizabeth and Floia are going away this allernoon, 
and! intend to accompany them.” 

Arthur looked up quietly from his sketch :book. ”1 hope you 
will have a pleasant journey,” was all he said, in the tone Hervey 
knew so well. His motives were seen through, and his brother was 
making merry at his expense. Hervey waited for a moment to see 
what else Arthur would say, but Arthur’s mood seemed uncom- 
monly curt just then. 

” The steamer starts at three o’clock,” began Hervey, not easily 
to be checked or put out of countenance. 

” A very convenient hour. You will have time for the table d'hote 
dinner,” was the reply. 

” 1 do not think Flora and her sister will dine at the hotel to-day; 
they have much to do and to think of at the last moment.” 

” Naturally,” Arthur made answer, while he carelessly plied his 
paint-brush. 

No surprise, no inquiry concerning such precipitate departure? 
Hervey could not in the least account for this provoking behavior on 
Arthur’s part; he must feel curiosity in any matter that regarded 
Elizabeth. Not to believe so was in thought to insult his own 
brother. Had not Arthur devoted himseif to Elizabeth, during these 
past weeks, almost as exclusivel}’’ as he had been devoted to Flora? 
And Arthur might be many things Hervey did not yet expect. He 
could never be mean, above all, to a woman. 

“We are not coming back to the island, ”*he said at last, think- 
ing that this speed] must elicit one in return. Arthur merely made 
answer, as he held up his drawing to the light, 

” It would hardly be worth while.” 

This was too much. Hervey almost glared at his brother as he 
blurted forth, 

” 1 may as well tell you that 1 am going to marry Flora.” 

“ Now, really, Hervey.” 

Arthur at last put down his sketch-book, good-naturedly resign- 
ing himself to a spoiled morning, perhaps a spoiled subject. 

” Now, really.” 

‘‘I shall write for the newspapers,” Hervey began, stoutly and 
apologetically; ” and you know that German notions are very differ- 
ent to English ones. Flora will cheerfully keep house on less money 
than an English girl would spend on aesthetics.” 

” You won’t have much of a margin for aesthetics, certainly,” the 
elder brother said, laziiy ironic. ” Tell me, now, have you a hun- 
dred pounds in the bank?” 

The culprit had not a word to say. 

“We can live in lodgings for the first year or two,” he said at 
last. 

“ Of course 1 have nothing to say in the matter-— nothing what- 
ever,” Arthur went on. “1 am not sure that a struggling life 
would do you any harm for a time, and money is to be made by the 
newspapers. But—” and here be leaned back in his chair and quiet- 


68 


LOVE MIKAGE. 


ly eyed his brother— “ but, Hervey, marriage is not a luxury to be 
purchased auprixfixe. Have you thought of that? The man who 
marries, goes to sea without a compass. One year’s expense is no 
sort of guide for that of the next. 1 should not like to have you 
blow your brains out because the butcher had dunned you for his 
bill.” 

‘Hervey laughed. Arthur had taken the matter so much mere 
agreeably than he expected. 

“We should probably live in the country. There are places even 
in England, charming too, where people can live upon next to 
nothing.” 

“ How about the newspapers? If you mean to give up London 
there is no help for you but to turn curate. Any jackanapes can 
preach a sermon.” 

Again Hervey laughed in the best possible humor. He was so 
boyishly, naively happy that Arthur might make what fun of him 
he would. 

“Well,” he said, with the consciousness of a wise utterance, - 
“ fortunately newspapers no more than pulpits require Aristotles. 
The business of the world is, for the most part, done by nobodies 
like myself.” 

“ On my word, you are becoming quite witty! I think I must 
fall in love too,” Arthur made answer; and what with his brother’s 
genial mood and his own exhilaration Hervey could not for the life 
of him keep back a speech that spoiled all — the first impertinent 
speech he had made to his senior in his life. 

“ I suppose you are going to marry Elizabeth?” he said, looting 
straight into the other’s face. The words were no sooner out than 
Hervey saw how deeply they were resented. Intense annoyance was 
written on Arthur’s pleasant face. He took up his sketch-book and 
fiercely plied the discarded brush. 

“ You suppose! You suppose! How can 1 help what you sup- 
pose? Be as suppositive as you please. Are we bound to make 
good every fool’s suppositions?” 

“You are complimentary this morning,” Hervey said, with un- 
assailable good-humor, trying to laugh away his blunder. 

“ Do let us have done with peisonalities. We miirht all have the 
temper of angels but for personalities,” Arthur answered, returning 
to the aggressive words, as if one buffet had not laid them low 
enough. “ Personalities strip oft the last rag of civilization, and 
take us back to the deluge ” 

Hervey stood by the ^door, willing enough to cut short this un- 
promising talk, but was too disturbed to go away without eliciting a 
word of explanation. Arthur could not look upon the intercourse 
of the past three weeks as a mere midsummer flirtation — such Eliz- 
abeth certainly did not regard it. 

“ One can but put two and two together, ” he said, pleasantly, 
hoping thus to make all things smooth. 

“ Ot course everybody has a perfect right to put two and two to- 
gether,” Arthur "retorted, savagely, “ but for Heaven’s sake keep the 
application of your mental arithmetic to your own affairs.” 

Hervey yet lingered irresolute. The bare notion of a misunder- 
standing with his brother was hateful to him ; the pair had never 


LOVE AKD MIRAGE. 69 

quarreled in their lives. But zeal on behalf of his future sister-in- 
law led him into the committal of one blunder more. 

“ 1 could not -help believing that you and Elizabeth understood 
each other,” he stammered forth. 

That speech was the unluckiest Hervey had made during, the en- 
tire conversation. Arthur was now really angry, for if his brother’s 
words meant anything at all, they indicated the kind of reproach 
most stinging to a proud man. Hervey, then, and if Hervey, why 
not every soul here, had watched his behavior toward Elizabeth, and 
had come to the conclusion that it was of a compromising nature. 
He saw also himself brought to the bar of public opinion, his ac- 
tions common property, the arrangement of his future life no longer 
a matter of individual concernment. And the worst of this odious 
position Avas that his own brother, his junior, was sitting in judg- 
ment against him. He cut short the confabulation with an epigram 
that made poor Hervey feel how painful these relations had, on a 
sudden, become. ‘‘ If everybody could help believing that he 
understood his neighbor's affairs, the world would be a tolerable 
place,” he said, and bent his head over his drawing, evidently de- 
termined to say no more. 

” 1 had better go and finish my packing,” Hervey made quiet an- 
swer; then he went to his own room, feeling bitter enough. They 
should meet at dinner. Arthur would be on the landing-place to 
take courteous leave; there would be no visible estracgeinent. But 
for a long time to come their intercourse was spoiled. The coming 
separation gave an intense feeling of relief, and to Hervey’s boyish, 
affectionate nature, the sense of Flora’s nearness came as a sweet 
consolation. He had at least one friend to confide in, one person in 
the world who would never silence him with an epigram. 

The cause of this imbittered feeling troubled Hervey most of all, 
for fie must now believe that Elizabeth’s fascination over Arthur 
had been transitory only, a mere summer sentiment destined to pass 
away wfith its roses and zephyrs. Elizabeth was as unapproachable 
as xArthur. To Flora and himself she would never, he felt sure, open 
her lips on this^ subject. Arthur’s want of depth, want of loyalty 
even, would be locked within her own breast, and no one would 
ever learn what a reality had passed between them. It was char- 
acteristic of Hervey, as it is of most mortal kind, that he was la- 
menting a brother’s lapse purely hypothetical. Like many another, 
Arthur Venning was being blamed merely for not doing the thing 
the world expected him to do, so lamentably most of us forget that 
the exercise of judgment is a matter of accurately weighing or cast- 
ing up. Leave out a thimbleful or a fraction, and what will our 
reckoning be worth? 


CHAPTER XXI. 

TILL WE MEET AGAIN! 

Hervey was right so far. Arthur had too much self-command 
and self-respect to betray his ruffled humor, and even toward him- 
self at the dinner-table he showed no acerbity. He was cold and 
taciturn; that was all. 


LOVE AND .MIRAGE. 


70 

But on the landing-place he felt bound to be friendl}’’; and. if his 
face were less animated and his voice less genial than usual, at least 
neither Elizabeth nor Flora could have guessed what had taken place 
between the brothers. 

“You have indeed taken us all by surprise,” he said, pleasantly, 
as all stood on the little wooden landing-place, surrounded by ac- 
quaintances. “ The summer will last yet a few weeks longer.” 

Elizabeth colored painfully. 

“We had no idea of leaving so soon till yesterday, ” she answered; 
“ but it must be.” 

“ This is not a farewell,” Arthur answered, in the same cheery, 
every-day voice. “ Who could help coming a second time to our 
island? and if not here, we are sure to meet elsewhere. Rhineland, 
Goetheland, the Black Forest — is not each a second England at cer- 
tain seasons of the year?” 

“ And our island friends will ever be welcome to Bremen,” Eliza- 
beth said, glancing from Arthur to others standing near. The girl 
was strangely animated, almost excited, evidently thankful to go, 
yet — could it be otherwise? — almost heart-broken at the interruption 
of a summer holiday. 

“ Then it is understood. We are to meet at Bremen?” Arthur 
added, perhaps with hidden meaning, intended for Elizabeth’s ears 
only. “ Bremen, at least, is accessible all the year round.” 

“ Oh, do not reproach this sweet place!” cried Elizabeth. “ If 
the summer here is shorter than anywhere in the wide orld, is it 
not by compensation sweeter?” 

“ That 1 admit unreservedly,” Arthur made gallant reply; he was 
talking not only to Elizabeth, but to twenty, and Hervey was stand- 
ing close by. 

Exerting himself to be off-hand yet friendly, perhaps all the time 
feeling that Elizabeth took in a deeper meaning, he added, “ There 
can surely be but one island and one summer in our recollections, 
henceforth and forever.” The final signal for embarking was now 
given, and the boat waited to take Hervey and his cliarge alongside. 
Amid the general leave-taking, the brothers shook hands after frigid 
English fashion. 

“ What shall 1 do with your letters?” asked Arthur. 

“ Keep them till 1 write from Bremen, if you please,” was the 
equally cold retort. 

Hervey saw with what difficulty Elizabeth maintained self-com- 
posure at the last. Yes, his mind was made up. His elder brother 
was behaving heartlessly to this sweet girl. She could never, never 
be the Elizabeth of old, and all through fault of his! 

“Well, 1 suppose you will turn up in Cheyne Walk some time 
or other,” Arthur said, as Hervey settled himself in the boat. 

“ 1 suppose so,” was all the other said. 

The stalwart boatmen now put their hands rhythmically to the 
rowlock, the pellucid waves showed crisp white curls, the upturned 
faces of the passengers stood out between bright sea and sky in 
strong relief, and the boat moved off amid waving of handkerchiefs 
and a chorus of German voices : 

“ Auf weidersehen t Auf weidersehen J” 

(Till we meet again 1 Till we meet again !) 


LOVE AND NTRAGE. 


71 


Arthur lingered on the little wooden landing-place till the empty- 
boats had returned and the steamer was fairly on its way, then he 
went back to his (Quarters with a feeling of mingled sel't-repioach 
and relief. He had sedulously avoided making acquaintance on the 
island, and now derived inexpressible satisfaciion from the fact of 
being alone. None to pry into his motives, none to comment on his 
doings. He was as sorry as he could be to have hurt Hervey’s feel- 
ings, but why would he meddle with things that did not concern 
him? And with affairs, above all others, which concerned a man’s 
self alone! For criticism in general Arthur carerl not a straw. Peo- 
ple might say’- what they chose about his writings, his sketches, his 
manner of life, himself; but to be criticised in the matter of liking 
and sentiment,, in the matter of feeling for a woman, that was past 
all endurance. Hervey ought to have shown more reticence, more 
delicacy, at any rate more knowledge of the world. Well, the sea 
now separated them, and by the time they should meet again all sore- 
ness would be healed. Hervey might commit this romantic piece of 
folly if he chose, and take to himself a poitionless bride ere he had 
set to work in right good earnest to win his bread. It would be his 
own part as elder brother to help him all he could ; certainly no 
word of reproach should ever pass his lips. He might do so much 
worse than marry a simple German girl who would make her own 
gowns, and not require half her husband’s income tor the pursuit 
of aesthetics! This pretty little Flora would make a very safe sister- 
in-law indeed, and safety is the first virtue to be sought in relations. 
With a certain sense of relief, also, he thought of his own affairs; all 
was now crystal clear between Elizabeth and himself. Scripture was 
no plainer than her downright utterances of two days ago. She 
liked him; he was her friend; but her heart was not free to love. 
Another feeling, all bitterness, which yet he must believe had been 
joy unalloyed once, shut out others for a time. She could but shake 
oft this sorrow before looking hopefully forward. He was bound to 
accept her decision, which lent itself to no misinterpretation. For a 
time, a period to which she had put uo limits, they were to be friends 
and nothing more. In other wmrds, both were absolutely free. But 
for Elizabeth’s passionate confessions of the other day, Arthur must 
have determined upon a wholly different line of conduct. He was 
a scrupulously honorable man; the notion of behaving meanly to a 
woman w^as as odious to him as that of criminal dishonesty in affairs 
of business. He had made love to Elizabeth; but for her naive out- 
pouring he should have followed Hervey’s example; no other course 
would have occurred to him, although — 

That unwelcome “ although!” how many a man has found him- 
self in Arthur’s dilemma, falling in love twice and the second time 
too soon! How many a man, rather than behave unhandsomely to 
a sentimental girl, has straightway pledged himself to a thankless 
bond, an affection that is but duty! and for lite long! There was 
no fickleness in Arthur’s disposition; he was loyalty itself. But the 
image of Elizabeth had straightway been eclipsed by one infinitely 
lovelier, and yet, in some strange way, recalling her own. There 
were glances, smiles, and aspects of this sweet Elizabeth that re- 
called a dozen times a day this dazzling creature whose sister she 
might well be. If inconstancy were here, Elizabeth must surely 


LOVE AXT) MTEAGE. 


72 

pardon it, since in adoring this stranger he seemed to adore her sec- 
ond self. Arthur, therefore, in these first moments of a mood that 
approached exultation, Avas alive to the precise prosaic state of 
affairs. Elizabeth had refused, or at least silenced’ him. Elizabeth 
was gone, and he felt glad. Glad for two reasons: first of all be- 
cause he could not bear the thought of forcing on her acceptance an 
affection charged with a heavy lien, and secondly, because he was, 
in sooth, bound hand and foot by another ^a^c5^ He had loved 
Elizabeth as fondly as an honest man can love a sweet girl, till just 
two weeks ago; since that time he had learned the meaning of a 
stronger word; he could now understand the desperate scot men pay 
to passion. It was therefore with a glad sense of disentanglement 
and relief that he saw the last puff of smoke fade from view, and 
returned to betake himself to his usual pursuits. Pew Englishmen 
but rejoice at some time or other in the feeling of utter isolation; we 
like to be in a place where we may be married, or, for the matter- 
of-fact, buried without causing an approach to a flutter. ^ This kind 
of exaggerated reaction against personal vanity it is that impels men 
to abandon hearth and duty for the mere sake of escaping identity; 
fleeing from the self so terrible when reflected in the opinion of one’s 
neighbors ! 

Arthur was far from carrying his feelings to such a pitch, but he 
did now revel in this utter remoteness from the world that knew 
him. For a short space he was to be ignored by society and his 
friends — as completely shut from view as a reckless iceman blocKed 
up in north seas. He knew lor a certainty that there was no coun- 
tryman or countrywoman of his on this island. In another week or 
two the German holiday-makers would begin to cross the sea. If 
he stayed a month the chances were that lie should have his little 
Paradise to himself— and one other! 


CHAPTER XXll. 

FIRST DAYS OF WAITING. 

Arthur had not made up his mind to sit down and wait for such 
windfalls as chance might bring. Yet what may chance count for 
in a life that is life indeed? We play with words as we will. The 
thing called Destiny is the shape into which a commanding spirit 
throws its existence. 

V He felt how frail was the tenure linking him to the ideal. Noth- 
ing in the wide world interested him now but the loneliness and the 
sorrow that already seemed remote and unreal as the things beheld in 
a dream. He dared Hardly hope for a fulfillment of the lady’s prom- 
ise. Obstacles would be pul in her way, or at the last she might be 
overtaken by timidity, and would shrink from confiding even in the 
word of an honest man, the honor of an Englishman. The more he 
pondered, the rhore he felt that this moving adventure was drifting 
from him and receding into the dim tracks of memory. It was for 
him to make illusions tangible, to translate phantoms into the living 
reality. Yes, he could, he must see her again. Come what might, 
he would here bend circumstance to his will. 


LOVE AJ^J) MIEAGE. 


73 

There was time enough to deliberate upon the best mode of effect- 
ing his purpose, and solitude is very favorable to the forming of 
plans; none of us, perhaps, are sufficiently alone. If the time spent 
in listening to opinions we do not intend to take, were devoted to a 
close scrutiny of the matter in hand, how much more expeditiously 
the business of life would be got through! In affairs of individual 
concern, each must be his own Nestor, August was but half out, 
and not till September could his beautiful protegee be free; so at 
least she had said during their kist interview. There was no need, 
then, for precipitate action on his part. For another week or two 
he could afford to dawdle deliciously as before: sketch, make little 
cruises, or excursions on foot, do the hundred and one things flirta- 
tion had prevented him from doing hitherto. Arthur was thorough 
in the least little thing. In spite of the new impressions and emo- 
tions mastering him, lie determined to carry out his original plan, 
and explore this wonderful island from end to end before going back 
to England. So, next day, as the weather was superlatively fine, he 
set off for the one spot tiiat had fascinated him most of all, the Black 
Lake— that lovely little sheet of water in the heait of the forest, so 
silvery bright in mid-day sunshine, so purply dark under a sunless 
heaven when the limpid w^ater reflected the dense beechen shadow 
as in a mirror. 

This legendary place had singularly attracted him from the first, 
and as yet he had not been able to enjoy it alone. Instead of mak- 
ing the climb through the forest, a glorious three hours’ walk, he 
now engaged a sluff to take him round the foreland, thus reaching 
tlie lake from above. Nothing could be more fairy-like than this 
cruise of an hour in glass}" waters, close under the cliffs and hang- 
ing-gardens of the forest. The silveriness of these natural parapets, 
the rich foliaire mantling many a scarp, the rare purity and pearli- 
uess of sea and sky, made up an ineffable whole. Such a day and 
such a scene could but move Arthur Venning, whose appreciation 
of certain delicate phases of Nature and Art almost approached an 
extra sense. As yet these subtler impressions had not touched the 
inner life of feeling and emotion, but he was now in the mood when 
the ideal, the' poetic, the best that is in man or woman, asserts itself. 
He felt, moreover, those secret promptings, those welcome yet dis- 
turbing prophecies of the new, fuller, deeper existence that had 
hitherto been only the unspoken spiritual, or at least intellectual 
part of him — noble aspirations, soul-reaching whispers, and trumpet 
calls, solemn claims and admonitions. What generous mind that 
lends itself to the guidance of the poet, the philosopher, the artist, 
is insensible to these? But when the voice heard is that of the 
man’s own soul speaking to himself, ah! then, the purpose of his 
being is already half fulfilled. He can rest content with common- 
ness never any more. Far from resisting the influences at work 
both within and without Arthur yielded to them. It was the first 
time that deepest feeling, the second intenser self that makes us what 
we are, had made itself audible. He hearkened, readier to obey 
than to parley, much less hold back. By some rare chance, nothing 
occurred to jar Ins mood. When he quitted the boat, knapsack on 
shoulder, and had climbed to the top of the wooded foreland, he 
found the place comparatively deserted. A fortnight ago the chalet 


LOYE AND MIKAGE. 


74 

gardens were animated as by a bivouacking army— not a bed to be 
bad for love or money; not a cup of coftee, except after an hour’s 
waiting; every rustic bench occupied; host, neat-handed Phyllises, 
and waiters blowsed with running. To-day a few stragglers dis- 
ported themselves under the trees, one or two carry-alls full of ex- 
cursionists drove up just as Arthur arrived, but it was evident that 
the tourist season was already on the wane. Truth to tell, a late 
spell of bad weather had driven away numbers, and September being 
at hand, not many were venturesome enough to come. In this 
pleasant chalet, thus nestled amid ancient beechen trees, Arthur took 
up his quarters to nurse his dreams and build his air-castles. Never 
was a spot more in keepng with those visions and reveries that seem 
so unsubstantial and phantasmal a man cannot choose but keep to 
himself. From this eyry, perched midway between sea and sky, he 
might drop a pebble into the glassy waters hundreds of feet below, 
or on the other side, by delicious wooaland ways, get down to the 
little lake imbosomed in the very heart of the forest. 

' Brooding stillness, mystery, enchantment, everywhere. All kinds 
of legends and historic myths, the earliest in this part of Christen- 
dom, were associated with this little tarn, so magically lovely in the 
broad light of a summer day, so eerie and fraught with m 3 ^sterious 
gloom under a clouded heaven or pale, sublunar radiance. Stage 
upon stage, spur upon spur, the dense beechen forest encircled it 
with a green wall, shutting out all but the meridian sun. The 
water-lilies needed no more; and wonderful was it to see them, their 
mimic constellations in a fairy firmament. There was all the charm 
of contrast here, yet a feeling of congruity. But for these globes, 
pure as ivory, bright as gold gleaming out of the dark, the place 
would have been too weird, too uncanny for mortal eyes to gaze on 
with pleasure. The water-lilies irradiated the lake, broke it up into 
a thousand smiles, laughed away for the nonce the significant awful- 
ness of its very name! 

“Iwill mahe a drawing here,” Arthur said, “and perhaps by 
the time it is done 1 may hit upon an expedient.” 

In other words, he wanted to devise some way of communicating 
with the lady of the fiowers. He knew that his letters would follow 
him safely enough to this remote spot— when did a letter go astray 
in the well-drilled German Empire? But he did not feel at all sure 
that the one letter he now waited for w^ould ever be written! Not 
one but a thousand things might stand m the way, so hard is it for 
those who have once tasted despair to make an effort on behalf of 
happiness. He could not have misread those wistful eyes. She had 
drained the bitter chalice, and when the time for resolve should 
come, was as likel}’’ to yield to what would wear the shape of im- 
placable destiny as to flee toward deliverance; but she should be 
rescued, and by him. He had made up his mind so far with very 
little trouble; howto effect his purpose was a matter requiring much 
more deliberation. 

The month of September, so eagerly looked for, had come at last. 
Arthur might now fairly expect a sign, or use such expedient as he 
siiould hit upon. Nor was there any time to lose. September has 
but thirty days, and the island was ofttimes cut off from all com- 
munication with the mainland in October, so at least folks said. 


LOVE MIRAGE. 


To wait on a fair Eden islanded from the vulgar world for a mirage 
was all very well. To be ice-bound in these northern seas, in the 
company ot a few fishers, made him already shiver to think of it, 
especially wdien the wind bellowed from all quarters, and a swdrling 
rain darkened the heavens and deluged the land. .Several days of 
such weather were now his portion in the chalet above the Black 
Lake: but with halt a dozen >iketches to finish, a volume or two of 
George Sand, and all kinds of bright, audacious hopes within his 
breast, he found such imprisonment delightful. Seven months of 
it might not pass so quickly. 

On a sudden, however, the storm vanished as some energumen 
miraculously diivon out, and this forest would become a perfect 
place. ^ Arthur hardly gave himself time to drink in the unspeaka- 
ble deliciousness of these first golden days of autumn, so busy was 
his mind now with the problem that muk be solved soon or never. 

Kot an expedient, not a shift escaped his alert mind, and he 
thought he had at last hit upon a safe means ot communicating with 
the beautiful prisoner when his wishes were brought about in a 
wholly unlooked-for-manner. 


CHAPTER XXlll. 

SPELLBOUND. 

When, indeed, did the thing we live for come to pass after expect- 
ed fashion? He was planning the day’s business over his early cup 
of coffee when a servant knocked at the door with a hurried mes- 
sage. 

“ A lady who had arrived late last evening and was about to con- 
tinue her journey at once,” he said, ” wanted to consult the English 
gentleman as to the best means of getting to London. Would the 
Herr speak to her for five minutes?” 

“ Certainly,” was Arthur’s prompt reply, as he rose to follow the 
lad. 

A moment before, his mind had been occupied with a sketch he 
wanted to finish that morning. Wholly thrown oft his guard by the 
matter-of-fact summons, he was now prepared to meet some country 
woman, some intrepid, cheery spinster returning from a solitary trip 
to Iceland, perhaps even some stray acquaintance, since he knew how 
many women, and each and all indefatigable travelers! The one 
woman who had entirely engrossed his thoughts during the past 
three weeks — whose future had been such a matter of delicious con- 
cernment to him— strange that for the moment she should be utterly 
forgotten! 

Great, then, was his astonishment to find himself, without any 
warning, in her presence, suddenly brought face to face with her as 
with any ordinary human being. The situation had evidently 
changed; that he saw at a glance. There was no more need for 
mystery and disguise. She was free to confer with him, to make 
her plans, to go whither she would. There were travelers’ belong- 
ings scattered about the room— a reticule with silver clasps here, a 
bundle of plaids there — and as she sat in hat and cloak, ready for 


76 LOVE AKD MIRAGE. 

immediate departure, she was busily turning over the pages of a 
guide-book. 

Taken aback as he was, Arthur could but note how beautifully 
these things became her— the black felt hat, with its broad briin, 
simple and dignified as in an old picture; the plain, black silk 
pelisse, bordered with dark fur, making graceful lines. She was 
veiy pale, but the expression of listless resignation, almost of passive 
despair, had given way to a look of proud, passionate self-assertion. 
Weakness had never been stamped on that rare physiognomy, rather 
a disdainfulness of suffering for suffering’s sake — a challenge of re- 
lentless fate to do its very worst. Now the woman predominated 
over the victim, the haughty spirit over the outraged heart. The 
crisis she had passed through had left her at least mistress of her- 
self. 

“ 1 have made up my mind to go at once to your country,” she 
said, with a steady, downright look, and an unfaltering voice. 

Arthur was for the first time realizing the sweetness of her voice. 

” Can you think of some good woman who will give me shelter 
while 1 seek how best to gain my bread?’' 

” That 1 readily underhike to do,” Arthur answered, straightway 
producing his pocket-book. ” But you look much too wearied to 
undertake such a journey immediately; rest at least one day.” 

There was something about Arthur Venning to inspire confidence 
under any circumstances — the easy initiative of the well-bred man, 
the pleasantness and mwir fair e of the man of the world; lastly, the 
alertness to help those weaker than himself, wdiich is the next best 
‘thing to downright heroism. And just such ready help and confi- 
dent counsel she stood in need of, her look said, so wistful yet so 
deprecato] y of anything approaching to officiousness or sentiment, 
so full of appeal to all that was single-minded and noble in this new 
friend. 

“ 1 could stay a little; 1 am free to gp or come,” she answered, 
hesitatingly. Then, as if determined that he should understand her 
position: ” If I have not a friend in the world, at least 1 have hardly 
an enemy.” 

” Be guided by me, then, and take a little rest; we will consult 
together as to your journej’- and your prospects in England. And 
do not call yourself friendless; in accepting my help you make me 
j^our friend.” 

She glanced at him with a look of inquiry. It occurred to her on 
a sudden that this kindly, delicate-minded young Englishman had a 
wife— was already the head of a family. By virtue of such a 
position, he now assumed this air of almost brotherly protective- 
ness. Arthur made haste to explain himself. 

y Those who travel much,” he said, in the same easy, agreeable 
voice, ‘‘ can seldom make a journey without being: able to render a 
little service to somebody ; and such chance-made acquaintances 
may well ripen into friendship. Your country-people, indeed, have 
coined a word for this pleasant relationship, Beise-heliaunschaf — 
traveling friendship.” 

” It is kind of you to take so much trouble about me. 1 will not 
prove ungrateful,” she answered, smiling sadly. ” I have a good 


LOVE AND MIKAGE. 


77 

voice. When your friends get up concerts for charitable purposes, 
1 will sing for them.'’ 

“ Endowed with a fine voice, your way in my country will be easy 
indeed,” Arthur said, easeily. “ There is no gift more appreci- 
ated. ' ’ 

She looked round the room, and her eyes lighted on a piano. 

” 1 will try to summon up courage, and let you judge of m}'^ sing- 
ing. It used to be much admired,” she said; “ And I should be 
g]ad to earn money. I want it, not for myself, but for others.” 

” I should, of course, have an opportunity of appraising your 
talents before I recommend them to strangers. By all means let me 
hear you sing, by-and-by. First let us plan your journey.” 

He straightway wrote a short letter introductory to his old ac- 
quaintance, the music-mistress, and Jianded it to her with his own 
card. 

” You will be in good hands, at any rate, for a time,” be s^id, 
“ and on my return to Loudon I am sure of being able to find you 
pupils. There are really no difficulties to appall you. Now for 
your route.” 

She handed him the guide-book, and he penciled an itinerary on 
the fly-leaf, carefully adding a note or two that might be useful in 
case of need— the name of a friendly English banker at Hamburg, 
who was begged to render any service the bearer might require; the 
address of a kind landlady at another stage of the journey; finally, 
in the most considerate and delicate way possible, he threw' out a 
hint as to the expense. Was she amply provided with money? Had 
she not better take an English bank-note or two. for use oh first 
arrival ? It would be so easily repaid after his return. And when 
his mind had been set at ease on that score, and every detail of the 
journey gone into, conversation took another turn. Mention of a 
certain artistic city she was to pass through led to the discussion of 
a work of art with which it had been recently enriched. For a few 
minutes the-pair forgot everything else in their aitistic enthusiasm. 
How can a single sentence reveal the intellect that makes the man 
or woman what they are! The few eager utterances Arthur now 
heard indicated to him that insight into art as rare as the creative 
faculty itself. He hearkened to one who regarded art as no bright 
envelope thrown over sordid human existence, rather a transforma- 
tion of existence itself, rendering splendid and pure what was other- 
wise circumscribed and mean. This little digression, brought about 
by mention of a newly disinterred Greek statue, smootlied matters 
wonderfully. Arthur felt as much at ease now as if he were dis- 
cussing Wagner or Rossetti with some intimate woman- friend wear- 
ing the last aesthetic costume over five-o’clock tea in Belgravia. 
But he heard no woman in Belgravia, indeed in all the world, at all 
to be compared to this one. There w'as a distinction combined with 
the most entire simplicity, naive ,yet passionate eagerness about 
things intellectual, a w'hole-heartedness and transpareacy, quite 
apart fiom the well-trained and perhaps slightly artificial culture of 
the women he made friends of in London circles. Then the match- 
less voice! Rich, sweet, pathetic, and dissimilarly toned, it might 
almost have consoled the blind lor the face they could not see. They 


78 LOVE AXD MIKAGE. 

had talked thus for half an hour when she said, cheerfully, putting 
off her hat and cloak. 

“ 1 think 1 could sing to you now, I am so happy at the prospect 
of earning money in rich, generous England.” 

She sat down to the piano, and played the opening phrases of a 
well-known accompaniment to one of Beethoven’s famous songs, 
with easy, well-reined-in fervor. -The born musician straightway 
proclaimed herself; not a trace of effort, not a strained accentuation, 
yet nothing slurred over that the composer intended to be there. So 
far the performance was flawless. Arthur’s trained ear and true 
feeling for music generally were to be much further gratified. No 
sooner did the sweet, strong, passionate voice fill the place than 
everything else in the wide world seemed dwarfed and dwindled to 
nothingness. As much of existence as has deepest meaning was 
now made vocal in a song — a song, moreover, that seemed made for 
this especial voice, although it had been sung by every cantatrice of 
European celebrity. And for a brief . spell the rapturous conscious- 
ness of power exhilarated the singer, translated the stricken woman 
into a wild, gladsohie spirit. The lendings of personality and cir- 
cumstance dropped off. She was no longer herself, but something 
brighter, more felicitous; something that had no taint of mortality 
or earth about it; something she would fain, escaping bodily in- 
cumbrance, remain forever. 

But the spell worked not long. A skylark’s exuberant carol is 
not sooner hushed near the fallow than this exuberant mood passed 
away. The voice faltered, the trembling fingers slid from the keys. 
She quitted the piano, and hid her face in her hands. 

” Old memories came back to me, ’’she murmured. “ ’Tis a song 
my father loved — ” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

T.OVE. 

Arthur let her weep a little, yet lingered, offering a stray word 
or two of encouragement. In England, he said, there would be less 
to remind her of the past. The bustle and animation of London 
were the best possible medicine for a mind given overmuch to 
retrospection. And we must all take heart, he added. As for her 
singing, it was of a kind that needed no praise. On the score of 
making her way, then, she need have no uneasiness. 

‘‘You are very kind,” she answered, having quickly dried her 
tears, ” and there are kind people everywhere. It is foolish of me 
to dread the future. ” 

” Nor need you dread the journey either,” Arthur said, kindly. 
“ My friend will meet you on arriving in London. Everything shall 
be mafle as easy as -possible.” , 

Still, seeing a look of hesitancy and reluctance in her face, he went 
on: 

” I shall leave this island myself soon. 1 may even overtake you 
on the road, and be able to help you through the most troublesome 
stage of your journey.” Then, growing painfully eager, he said, 


LOVE AJsD MIRAGE. 79 

“ Anyhow, we shall meet in October . I must he back by that 
time/’ 

Still the samo look of misgiving, the same silence. Was she be- 
ginning to distrust him also, to see, in his alacrity to help, a less wel- 
come motive than common charity? Was she on the verge of 
dreading liis very chivalrousness, his devotion? Such a thought 
was not to be entertained for a moment. Throughout this interview 
he had been exercising self-mastery, determined in the least little 
tiling to betray no other motive but prosaic wayside benevolence. 
Even with regard to her singing he had kept back any approach to 
■warm admiration. For a time, at least, she must see in him an ordi- 
nary well-doer, nothing more. 

But when he saw her overcome, as he thought, by a sense of dire 
forlornuess, sad and helpless in her matchless beauty as any com- 
mon woman, he was momentarily thrown off his guard. The im- 
pulse to console became irresistible. 

“ If you really feel timid about this undertaking, 1 will precipitate 
my own departure on purpose to escort you,” he said. 

That was his first ‘blunder. To English and American ears such 
a proposal might seem free from forwardness, much less imperti- 
nence. Arthur torgot that he was addressing no confident, much 
traveled countrywoman, no fair free-and eas}'- "Yankee, equally 
read}’ to take him in hand. He was speaking to a German girl, 
imbued with very different notions from her cradle upward, and 
who, under any circumstances, would have resented an initiative of 
this kind. But it was not an apparent violation of social etiquette 
that now made his listener’s pale cheeks glow' and eyes fiash. 
Rendered morbidly alive to anything that should wear ilie look of 
disrespect or slight, she had no wrord to say; too sad, too dejected 
tor scorn, she heard him out. 

In his intense anxiety to soothe and cheer her, he also entirely 
misread his companion’s mood, wrongly interpreting the jpensive 
questioning, the passiveness, the almost agonized look of doubt. So 
he blundered on from bad to worse. 

‘‘ 1 must soon be returning, anyhow,” he went on. “ Why should 
I not render you such small service?” 

Then, beguiled by the changing expressions of the face he had 
been studying as in a picture, desperately fascinated by her beauty, 
and unmindful of all the collectedness and reserve he had imposed 
on himself, he added, in a voice shaken with eagerness, 

“ Accord me the right to protect you.” 

The words were hardly out of his lips when he realized how utterly 
they were misread. He would never forget that look as long as he 
lived. Till a moment before, she had smiled upon him out of very 
gratitude and fullness of heart; smiled upon him as if he had been 
kinder and better than mere mortal — almost akin to the angels in his 
tenderness and pity. 

Now she turned away as from some vile thing — the bitterest enemy 
a forlorn creature could have. The trembling lips moved, but no 
utterance came; and well was it for Arthur that she did not utter the 
wmrd he might have found hard to forgive, that, certes, she could 
never have forgiven herself. 

Sire was leaving him thus, not contempt alone but despair written 


80 


LOVE AND NIRAGE, 


in her face — a despair new since yesterday— when Arthur proudly, 
even scornfully, finished his sentence. 

“Be my wife,” he said. 

The unspoken abhorrence and deprecatory look did not vanish all 
at once; first, doubt gradually made its appearance in their place; 
next a feeling of bewilderment; last came sweet, ineffable assurance. 
She sat down, tiembling from head to toot. 

“ Would you marry me — a fallen thing?” at last she said, iualow 
voice. “ May one man s generosity attain the measure of another’s 
meauness?” 

Said Arthur, stoutly, 

“ There is a church on this island, and a wedding ring can cross 
the sea. As 1 stand before Heaven, 1 am ready to make you my 
wife, now and here.” 

“ Why would you marry me?” she asked, in the same sweet, 
plaintive tone. “ Can it be my poor beauty or my misfortunes? 
is it admiration that moves you or sweet pity?” 

Again Arthur spoke out with manful fervor, 

“ Does an honest man marry a Woman for any reason but one? 
1 would make you my wife because 1 love you.” 

“Oh!” she cried, “ do not let us use that word. In my ears it 
has a baneful sound. There must be a better feeling than love born 
of compassion like yours, such gratitude as mine!” 

“ What matters the word?” retorted Arthur, at every step put on 
the defensive. “ A man can but honor a woman in one way, be it 
admiration, pity, what you will, that prompts him.” Then he held 
out his hand and repeated the words, 

“ Let me make you my wife, on this island and as soon as may 
be.” 

' A light came into her beautiful eyes: first of sad retrospection, 
then of joyful looking forward. Gradually sorrow seemed to drop 
from her as a garment, and hope was there to take its place, radiant 
yet subdued, beautifying, past power of w^ords to describe; but for a 
while the tears lingered as rain-drops on a flower opening to the sun- 
shine after a storm. 

“My mother died of a broken heart; my father is mad in the 
spittal, and all through me,” she murmured. “ I cannot bring her 
back again, but 1 think if 1 went to my father with a brave man by 
my side, and showed him my wedding-ring, he might understand. 
His reason would perhaps come back again! AVho knows? Heaven 
is very merciful.” 

Then she wiped away her tears, and went on in the same soft, 
pathetic voice; 

“ What joy that would be! For madness is worse than death. 
The dead are at rest, but ray poor father never ceases to grieve lor 
his lost daughter, his pride, his darling. Sometimes he curses me 
with fearful ravings, they say, and sometimes he cries like a child, 
reproaching me pitifully and tenderly. And my dear, dear sisters’ 
homeless, looked down upon, what joy for them to have me back 
again! for the wedding-ring will make all things right,” she said, 
between laughing and crying, and kissing the hand that clasped her 
own. “ Who will dare to flout the Englishman’s wife?” 


XOVE kND M IK AGE. - 81 

Arthur smiled proudly and approvingly. AVIio indeed? his face 
said. 

“ Is it not wonderful to think of the good one human being can 
do another?” she went on. in a voice tremulous with emotion. 
“ Aou have crossed my path to save me from despair and be my 
guardian angel, but the good will not stop there. Is not all doing 
good since Christ set the example a kind of expiation, an atonement 
for the sins of others? You will hold me all the dearer for having 
so befriended me, and v/ill be better and happier too. Oh!” she 
cried, with sudden light beaming from the beautiful eyes, ” if to do 
VNUong is such darkness and woe, what, must the brightness and joy 
of conscious rectitude be like?” 

” Nay,” said Arthur, in quite a humble yet aggrieved voice, ‘‘you 
set me up too high. 1 ask you to marry me because you are the 
first woman 1 have seen I would fain make my wife. For Heaven’s 
sake do not talk of befriendment and well-doing; the words do not 
apply.” 

” But,” she went on, determined to make him see her meaning, 
” you may be more generous than you know; you may have mis- 
taken pity for love. Anyhow, the best of all joys, the joy of others 
which is one’s own giving, will be yours, and you will at last under- 
stand what 1 mean when 1 speak of a better feeling than love. 
Those who love each other in the common way have nothing to for- 
give, nothing to be thankful for. Should 1 let 5"ou so bind yourself, 
unless 1 trusted you as you must trust yourself? You would not 
behave magnanimously now unless you were sure of being iible to 
behave so always. You would never reproach me byword, look, or 
deed, 1 know. And the best, deepest feeling a woman can bestow 
shall be yours. My affection for you shall be that of mother, sister, 
wife, in one.” 

Then she added again, ready to break into tears, “You will take 
me to my old home, wull you not? Oh, to see my sisters! To have 
them love me as of old; and it God sees fit to restore my father to 
reason, to hear him bless me and call me his child, his own Jilva once 
more. No, it is too much joy; it can never, never be.” 

Arthur soothed her, lover-like, before going away. Better for 
both, he said, to be alone awhile. Later he wmuldtake her tor a lit- 
tle walk in the forest; if not they should see each other next day 
and the next. 

“ And the next,” he added, confidently. “ It must be as 1 say.” 

He left her outwardly calm and unmoved, and went about the 
day’s business as usual. 

An Englishman makes war or love, ruin overtakes him, or Fort- 
une’s choicest gifts are poured into his lap, but the gaping, world is 
none the wiser. He suddenly finds himself a millionaire, a hero, a 
ruined man, or an accepted lover, and straightway stolidly orders his 
dinner. 


82 


LOVE JLND MIEJLGS. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

‘ RETROSPECTIVE. 

“ And now,” said Eva, ” you shall have my story.” 

They had sauntered down to the marge of the lake, warm light 
cradling them sottly, none but themselves denizens of this golden 
world. Hardly a scene foi tales of tears and passion, yet in spite of 
the inefiable peace and loveliness, the deep, dark waves on which 
lay the golden water-lilies might symbolize the hidden mystery and 
despair underlying human life, brightened by the mercy of Heaven 
with fair hopes. 

They sat down on the skirts of the wood, both under the spell of 
the strange sweetness and solitude. It seemed, in their first trans- 
port of sympathy and understanding, as if they hardly needed ex- 
planation. Heart had already spoken to heart, soul to soul. "W ords 
could hardly make things clearer, yet Eva was fain to tell all 
now. Her pent-up confidences and secret thoughts long kept in 
check must find utterance at last. He held his peace. What will 
not a rare woman hazard in order to escape inadequate existence? 
Unkindness may be endured even by those possessed of little patience; 
laborious, nay, loveless days made light of. But when the inner- 
life which is light indeed, lacks space and nutriment, when the soul 
is penned up between prison walls, an ardent nature can endure it 
no longer, and freedom is purchased at desperate cost. 

Eva’s story was much of the kind Arthur Venning had looked 
for. This brilliant girl had been the victim of her own intellectual 
aspirations, and of another’s subtle influences for ill, surely of evil 
chance also. In her case it seemed 'admissible to talk of fate and 
destiny, so implicitly were the toils of both woven about her feet. 

A small ofiicial, living in a remote little Residency or ducal capital, 
had three daughters, the two younger of whom promised to be 
paragons, but cast into the shadow by the attractions of their elder 
sister. On her, indeed, nature had lavished such bounties as might 
promise a matchless fortune — beauty, stateliness, esprit, a voice of 
uncommon richness, also artistic aptitude quite out of the ordinary 
way. And she was ambitious, though what play was there for rare 
character and parts in the future carved out tor her? 

Eva and her younger sister must just be trained as school-teachers, 
and afterv^ard paired off with some estimable pastor, professor, or 
otBcial. A life that should be her own, the best and fullest expres- 
sion of herself, in other words, the highest good attainable to human 
beings, was as remote from her as from some veiled thing called a 
woman shut up in Eastern seraglio. 

“Oh!” cried Eva, passionately, ‘‘henceforth women must have 
happier destinies. By virtue of freedom they will at last attain to 
full mental stature, and will grow strong and wise and happy. For 
is not injustice, alike in large and small things, at the bottom of 
most human misery, and what can be more unjust tiian the distor- 
tion of claims into the semblance of a duty? In the pride of my 


LOVE AJTD MIRAGE. 


83 


youth, on the threshold of life, possessed, moreover, as I believed, 
with a natural gift that might prove a career, I was bidden to marry 
a man because it was my duty. Yet 1 blame my parents very little. 
We were poor; the proposed marriage was a suitable one; why could 
1 not be as easily contented with a humdrum, narrow existence as 
other girls? They little understood how the notion crushed, almost 
hardened me. 1 was to be no longer myself, to give up all that was 
life indeed, to drag; through life at the bidding of others. 1 began 
to feel afraid of myself. I had wild thoughts of fleeing, or appren- 
ticing myself to some stage-manager as vocalist, of breaking with 
my family even. As 1 sat wrestling with these thoughts, determined 
to evade the reality they would fain force upon me, yet heart-broken 
at the notion of causing sorrow to my parents and sisters, an arch- 
tempter stood before me in tJie shape of a savior. We were often at 
court, my second sister and myself, and the prince, who was related 
to the ducal house, had danced with me once or twice. 

“ ‘ Dear child,’ he now said — he was older than myself by ten 
j’^ears, and bis rank and knowledge of the world permitted this 
familiarity — * do not weep any more. You are free, and it is to me 
you are indebted for your freedom.’ 

“ 1 looked up in amazement, and he went on, matter-of-fact, 
even kindly, yet carefully concealing anything like sentiment. 

“ ‘ I bring you even better news still. In a week you will be on 
your way to Italy The world of art, the musical future you have 
dreamed of, are to be yours.’ 

“ Then he went on to explain, sTll in the same easy, almost in- 
different manner, that my kind friends at court had heard rumors of 
the distastefulness of the mafriage proposed to me, and that he had 
hit upon a plan by which time might be gained and matters smoothed 
over for all of us. His mother, sister of the reigning duchess, was 
about to start tor Italy, and wanted a young lady as companion— 
lectrice they called it. 1 was the veiy person to please her somewhat 
fastidious tastes. 1 was to have every facility afiorded me for culti- 
vating my voice. The marriage thus postponed need never take 
place, and 1 should quit my parents on affectionate terms as if noth- 
ing had happened. 

“My poor parents! Not even a brilliant marriage could have 
made them prouder than prospects like these. 1 was to see Italy, 
then the world, and travel from one German court to another. They 
wept when they parted from me, but it was tears of joy. My sisters 
looked upon me already as a grand personage, destined to raise the 
family fortunes. 1 never saw them again. 

Yet, for a time, all went well. The prince was not only my bene- 
factor and kind friend, he was my intellectual guide, my spiritual 
teacher, nothing more, so at least 1 blindly believed, and 1 was too 
happy, too absorbed in my rich, full ait life to suspect the truth. 1 
really liked him. I felt more than grateful to him. He was indeed 
daily and hourly becoming necessary to* me, but 1 was far from 
suspecting as yet that his will was to become my destiny.’’ 

She paused for a moment, and added, in a quiet, mysterious 
voice: 

“ For such things must be. Looking back on the past, 1 can 
pity myself and forgive. 1 was no mere weakling, caught in tho 


84 


LOVE AXD MIRAGE. 


grip of an iron purpose, rather a victim who, blindfolded by subtlety 
and wile, is made to walk blindfolded toward the pitfall. On a 
sudden the scales fell from my eyes. One morning the prince came 
to me with a look that revealed all. 

“ ‘ We are alone,’ he whispered. ‘ You must know what 1 have 
come to tell you. 1 have loved you from the lirst, and you — 1 think 
you have learned to love me a little.’ 

- “1 was dumb. Did 1 ever love this man? 1 know not; I only 
know that he influenced me strangely, and that his will seemed to 
paralyze mine. Intellectually he had already claimed me as his. 
Ten years older than myself, with a vast knowledge of the world 
and of art, an unerring critical faculty, moreover, he had, indeed, 
made me what 1 was. 1 owed my real, that is to say, my spiritual and 
artistic, existence to him. He had found me a curious, ardent girl; 
he had molded me into the thoughtful woman, the artist. He,*the 
fallen angel, had given me a soul. 

“ ‘ We are alone. Now, if ever,’ he said. ‘ Our fate lies in our 
hands. The duchess will not return to-day, and her presence is the 
only barrier to our happiness. Go with me. Become my Wife. ’ 

“ What could I do but draw back and tremble? 

“ ‘Listen,’ he cried, ‘my love, my own! My mother has set 
her mind upon a great marriage for me. The bride is chosen, 
negotiations are already opened. If 1 return to Germany free, my 
dekiny is sealed; and does not the same lot await yourself? I plead 
your cause as well as my own, and more, all that is dear to you — 
Italy, your art. ’ ” 

“ A fallen angel, did 1 say?” reiterated Eva, after a pause. ” Who 
can aver that he did not then mean fairly by me, and that he had 
made up his mind to sacriflee worldly prospects for my sake? I 
believed so then; sometimes I almost believe so still.” 

How, indeed, could she help trusting him? Whether for a brief mo- 
ment he had been worthy of it was a secret locked within his own 
breast. His studied care for her happiness during manj’- months, his 
unvarying friendliness and well-reined-in chivalrousness and devo- 
tion, above all his solicitude for her future as she would fain shape 
it for herself — all these things compelled her to regard him as the 
best, truest friend she had in the world. And what he said was 
true. In him and him only lay her chances of happiness. That 
very day she had received a letter from home, urging the claims of 
her unwelcome suitor; and if not in love with the prince, she was 
at least drawn to him by a feeling as tenacious — gratitude of the 
deepest, most ardent kind. So she trusted him, and all things 
seemed to show that at the moment of making this proposal he had 
not intended to deceive her, only to keep the marriage secret. At 
any rate, when they reached the appointed place all things were in 
readiness according to his promise — ring and book, priest and 
notary. But at tire last* moment it was found that, owing to the 
fact of both bride and bridegroom being aliens, some additional 
forms must be gone thiongh to make the marriage valid. Married 
they were, indeed, but it was a marriage not valid in the eyes of the 
civil law. Then they hurried away to have the necessary formalities 
gone through, so the prince said, on German soil. But again no 


LOYE AXD MIRAGE. 


85 

sooner had they crossed the frontier than fresh obstacles presented 
themselves. The prince was summoned home in consequence of 
the illness of his uncle, the head of the house. Eva, cut loose from 
her home, her protectress, could but cling to him and trust him still, 
awaiting his return to be acknowledged openly as his wife. For his 
wife she was. Before the altar he had taken her* he declared again 
and again that he was on the point of keeping his word. Once even 
a marriage contract, in accordance with the laws of Germany, had 
been drawn up. She had allowed herself to be brought to this re- 
mote island, on the understanding that here at last sSe was openly 
to take his name. 

Wheiher or no there was a warring still of good and evil purpose 
in this worldly heart, whether indeed, but for certain worldly cir- 
cumstances, he would have made the penniless hourgeoise maiden his 
princess, who shall say? There came at last a day when every 
vestige of hope was wrested from her. As ^st he could, with many 
excuses and apologies, he broke the tidings roat, in order to restore 
his fortunes, he was compelled to marry a rich woman. Financial 
crises, speculation, evil times had so reduced his income and so 
hampered his estate that there was nothing left for him to do but 
this — “ or blow his brains out,” he added, with a haggard smile. 

Then he tried to win her pity, her forgiveness, and used every 
argument to induce her not to return to her family, but to pursue 
her artistic career — she owed it to herself, to art. 

There was nothing he would not do to further her wishes, he 
said. Lastly, he told her of all the flattering things that had been 
said about her line voice in high places, glowingly painted the future 
and the fortune in store for hW if she would go through a thorough 
course of training. She might become a prima donna, anything; 
where was her ambition? 

“ Ambition,” sighed Eva. ” My only ambition was to be loved 
at home once more. That voice of mine! 1 only valued it for my 
father’s sake; it would console him, 1 thought; it would win me 
his forgiveness. But my parents hardened against me; and what 
wonder? 1 had broken their hearts. Why did 1 not tell them all 
at first? 1 but mused within the hope of a joy that should make all 
things right. They were so ambitious for me, so proud of their 
Eva. Poor father! poor mother! what wonder that the truth was 
more than you could bear? My father went mad; my mother took 
to her bed and never left it more; my sisters were forbidden to men- 
tion my name. But now 1 shall be as one who was dead and is alive 
again, was lost and is found!” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

LOVERS. 

How calm and peaceful looked the little lake as- Arthur lingered by 
it, listening to Eva’s sweet voice. Here on the brightest days of the 
year are to be seen rather the subdued winter harmonies that greet 
oui eyes in southern England than the gorgeous glow of summer. 
To-day about waves and sky lay just these quiet, tender hues we see 


86 


LOVE MIEAGE. 


on certain mild January days of our dear native land. The glassy 
waters of the mere reflected pure tints of pearl and clouds just 
touched with rosy gold floating on a pale azure sky. On the cool 
gray surface ot the water rested the w^ator-lilies, their bright gold 
and ivory cups subdued in the placid light. Ineffable the sweetness 
and stillness here. Not a bird on the branch, not a fawm gambol- 
ing athwart the forest reaches. They were near the sea, but could 
not hear its ripple. 

“ Are you versed in the history ot this Island?" asked Eva, with 
a smile. “ Do you know" why this little sheet of water embosomeri 
in the ancient beechen forest is called the Black Lake, and th. 
granite block on which we are sitting bears the name of the Slone oi 
Sacrifice?" 

" 1 am not entirely ignorant,” said Arthur. Had not Elizabeth, 
indeed, acted as his cicerone here? " But tell me what you know.” 

" Tills place, then," she said, " was consecrated in the olden time 
to one of the most fearful divinities ever mortal bent knee to. Who- 
ever served her was henceforth to be kept pure from all contact with 
anything human, and there w^as but one way to accomplish this: 
the minister to the god was also the victim. Even the very slaves 
who washed the golden car of the goddess were straightway cast 
into the lake: and how many unfortunate beings may have been 
offered upon this very stone!" She rose and showed him a huge 
red stain in the granite block, shaped, indeed, like those savage 
altars we read of on which were immolated human offerings. 

" This IS but a natural streak, a vein of porphyry in the forma- 
tion," she said, " but the islanders will ever believe the stain to be 
caused by human blood. How fearful these early creeds! yet me- 
thinks they point a parable. The evil passions that weak mortals 
serve, do they not exact of their slaves the supreme sacrifice? Is 
there any one who has hearkened too much to self, wdiich is but 
another name for passion, without falling a victim?” 

She was thinking of her girlhood, and of those ardent longings 
for a richer, fuller life that had led her to Italy, to despair! Had 
she been of a less ambitious spirit, all the misery of her life might 
have been spared. 

Said Arthur, gayly, 

" I read herein a more acceptable interpretation of the allegory. 
This goddess of yours should, 1 think, rather symbolize a purifies 
than a destroyer, since it is by virtue of passions that men rise and 
fall, in other words, fulfill their destiny. W'e must be first crushed, 
to be afterward uplifted, tried as clay is proven in the fire." 

Thus tliey talked, wilh the beautiful confidence and exclusiveness 
of lovers who find that every hour brings them nearer to ope another, 
shuts them more and more within a little world ot their own. The 
longest day could never be long enough for these spoken volumes. 

" 1 have now told you my life, will you not tell me yours?"' asked 
Eva. This was the next day, when much had been talked over of 
more immediate interest. The marriage was to take place in a few 
days, and that very night Arthur would cross over to the opposite 
shore in order to buy the wedding-ring. Next day before nightfall 
he should be back again, and then another little journey was in store 


LOVE AITD MIEAGE. 87 

for him— -he must traverse the island from end to end for the pur- 
pose of securing the services of a priest. 

They had just returned from a long ramble in the forest, and for 
the first time Arthur accompanied Eva to tlie tiny anteroom, turned 
into a rustic boudoir, that led out of her chamber. There were so 
many things to carry upstairs— spoils of the forest, spoils of the 
sea — that he would not let her burden herself. And when arrived 
on the threshold there seemed still much to say; so he followed her 
within. 

Happiness wearies even as doth sorrow, and Eva was now languid 
from overjo}'". Her spirits during the last two days had been won- 
derfully buoyant. Joy beamed from her eyes and imparted bloom 
to her cheek. It was no longer u vision ofsorrow and beauty that 
moved statelily before Arthur’s eyes; instead, a dazzling fellow- 
creature on whom Nature had lavished her choicest gifts, and with 
whom it were good to live. What was Eva not? what could she not 
do? In the exuberance of her late mood, all the inborn sprightliuess 
and vivacity of her character were revealed, as w'ell as mental en- 
dowments of deeper kind. She should have been a leader and in- 
spirer of men and women in some high sphere; for what may not 
perfect loveliness do when combined with depth of feeling and a 
passionate craving after intellectural beauty? “Kind God in 
heaven!” was Arthur’s secret thought, “ what may not existence be 
like by this woman’s side!” 

Deeply as was Eva moved also at the thought of sharing his life, 
intensely as she appreciated the intellectual sympathies and aspira- 
tions drawing them together, it w^as a common, sheer, human con- 
tentment that she drank in now. The thought bringing tears of 
rapture and thanksgiving was the thought of home. It seemed too 
good to be true, but true nevertheless. A short week more, a little 
week, and her sister would learn the blessed tidings — their Eva no 
longer a shame to them, her name a terror never any more, the past 
buried and forgotten, new life in store for hll. And that scene of 
explanation and reconcilement would be ever before the impatient 
eyes. Never would Prodigal be so welcomed, so wept over! She 
already heard her sisters’ voices, already a thousand times in fancy 
her tears of pure joy were mingled with theirs; she saw a flash of 
understanding light up her father’s face as she clasped him close, 
and, pointing to Arthur, whispered, “ Husband — Eva’s husband.” 

Around that last thought centered her fondest, most passionate 
hopes. She would willingly have laid down her life if by that 
means her father’s reason could be restore,d. There was now a bet- 
ter way: when the grief that had brought the madness should be re- 
moved, must not the madness go? Eva clung to this hope with a 
tenacity that nothing could shake. Yes, the good God in his mercy 
would permit this cure. Not only was their lost Eva to be restored 
to her sisters, but their father, like the man Christ healed, sitting 
clothed and in his right mind. No wonder that in these first mo- 
ments of looking forward she thought more of Arthur’s deed than 
of Arthur’s self. The curse of shame was to be removed from her 
house, the family escutcheon cleared of its blot, and by him only. 
His love was equal to a matchless .sacrifice. - But before the happi- 
ness of loving him and compensating him she was to taste of another 


LOVE AJ^J) MIKAGE. 


88 

of less selfish kind. She was meantime living less in the world of 
realities with him than in the world of hopes ot which he was author. 

Something like reproach, however, stung her when she thought 
that to-morrow he would not be there. She felt a grateful, ardent 
impulse on the eve ot this short separation to throw herself into his 
life tor a brief spell and forget hei own. W as he not henceforth to 
be all in all to her? Had she any right even for a day thus to live 
in a world of thought he could not share? 

So again, with sweet insinuation, she repeated the question. 

Arthur laughed. 

The story was but a dull one, he said; but such as it was, she 
should have it and she would. 

Wearied from her long walk she had thrown off her hat, and now 
rested on a low stool, leaning her head on the arm of Arthur’s chair; 
tor he had taken out his sketch-book, and while he talked lazily 
plied pencil and brush. To have something to do seemed an excuse 
for staying a little longer with her, and there was a tempting bit of 
forest glade within sight. 

So he became busily idle, and by-and-by in her weariness — she did 
not know it — the beautiful head rested no longer on the arm of the 
chair, but had slipped to his knee. He chatted on; not for worlds 
would he have ventured so much as to touch the perfectly shaped 
head lying close under his sketch-book, or even to notice the intru- 
sion. As yet she had never kissed him, and he bided his time. She 
was to see that no woman in all the world was so sacred in his eyes 
as the one about to become his life. 

Thus, then, they began to talk, Eva’s face being turned from him, 
her sweet voice a little languid from fatigue. She wanted very much 
to hear this dull story, she said, and first and foremost to know one 
thing— had he ever cared for any woman but herself? 


CHAPTER XXVH. 

A KEVELATION. 

To tell you plain truth,” Arthur said, gayly, after some talk of 
his London experiences, “ 1 never so much as fancied myself in love 
till 1 reached this island a few weeks back. There is a fatality about 
the place. Had 1 never seen you, 1 do believe my fate would have 
been sealed all the same.” 

“ What happened?” Eva said, with natural feminine curiosity. 
Is not the firs! question a girl asks almost always of an avowed 
lover, “ Whom :iid you love before me?” 

” 1 was tempted to visit these remote shores by the most romantic 
accounts,” Arthur went on. ‘‘I made up my mind, indeed, that I 
was not only to see the fabled mirage here, but that 1 should nnd 
the maiden of my dreams. And true enough ! Hardly had I set 
foot in the island when 1 thought- my time was come. The pretty, 
pretty girl!” 

“Was she your countrywoman or mine?” 

“ Of pure Teuton Wood, with such blue eyes and fair hair as 1 do 
verily believe are never found out of Germany.” 


LOVE AKD MTRAOE. 89 

“ What attracted you to her besides the blue eyes aud fair hair?” 
Eva asked, still playful. 

Arthur also went on, as gay and careless as before. 

“ ISo many things! To begin with, she had a lovely expression — 
UicJc, you Germans call it — and a voice pleasant to listen to.” 

Eva laughed gently. These naive confessions of her lover amused 
hei not a little. 

” Would you have married her?” she asked. 

‘‘ Ah! who shall say? But for a certain visit on a wet day to a 
certain lady awaiting her limner, i think it likely. We were’ any- 
how, capital friends.” 

If these confidences pleased Eva, how much more grateful weie 
they to her lover! He was confiding in her as he had never yet con- 
fided ih any human being, and the new-fresh sense of nearness and 
exclusiveness was inexpressibly delicious. They were beginning to- 
lead the life of one that has become the life of two. 

“ This blue-eyed beauty had a certain likeness to yourself; 1 could 
almost have sworn j^ou were sisters,” Arthur added, laughingly. 
” So you see 1 was but falling in love with you by anticipation.”" 

‘‘ Such fancied likeness is mere nationality,” Eva replied, with- 
out strained interest or the faintest suspicion of the revelation in 
store for her. “We Germans also find all English girls of a type 
alike. But tell me more.” 

Trusting him implicitly she yet wanted to discover how far Ar- 
thur’s fancy had gone; she could not suppose him to be blameworthy 
in the least little thing. Ail the same she felt sorry for the blue- 
eyed maiden he had evidently made love to. The story interested 
her. 

“ For once and lor all understand that when 1 asked you two days 
ago to be my wife, 1 was as free to do so as if there were no other 
woman on this island, or, tor the matter of th^t,” laughed Arthur, 
“ in all the world. 1 have never had a fancy for entanglements of 
this kind; indeed, 1 had inade up my mind long ago that 1 should 
die a bachelor. And why? — for the vain and preposterous reason 
that 1 could never find a woman good enough for me.” 

Eva smiled sadly. 

“ But,” resumed the happy, unconscious lover, “ 1 will be quite 
open with you. I did ask your prett}'" double if she liked me, and 
— the rest of it. She parried the question, hinted at circumstances 
and family misfortunes that made it her duty not to marry. 1 can- 
not help thinking that there was a faithless lover in the wa}^” 

Eva’s face was still turned from him as she rested thus, the beau- 
tifully shaped head just touching his knee. Sue put yet another 
question, in the low, gentle tones of one who is wearied In body 
rather than in spirit, deep, unutterable contentment thrilling the ex- 
quisite voice. 

What was that sweet girl’s name?” 

A moment, one short moment more in the fair sunshine, on the 
golden sward, then a precipice and a horrible abyss, from which 
there was no escape. 

Arthur was skillfully manipulating his clouds, but in a second or 
two his answer came. 


90 


LOVE AXD MTKAOE. 


“Elizabeth — Elizabeth Flower in niy own tongue, Blume in 
yours. What a pretty name for a pretty girl!” 

Eva never stirred. Had Arthur’s suspicions been aroused he could 
not have discerned by any outward sign that this simple name 
brought despair to liis listener’s heart. The fair head lay motion- 
less as that of a sleeping child on its pillow; the limbs did not trem- 
ble. Only the eyelids closed, as if from excessive weariness, and the 
beautiful cheek grew pale. Eva, accustomed to make almost super- 
human efforts at self-control, was stilling the tumult of her bosom 
by force of indomitable will. She would calmly hear to the end; 
time for her heart to break afteiward. 

Arthur chatted on. He spoke of Elizabeth’s devotion to her 
younger sister, of Hervey’s fancy for Flora, of the excursions they 
had made together Even those niysterious star-shaped flowers were 
mentioned— the flowers Elizabeth, with all a German girl’s senti- 
ment, so loved for her dead sifter’s sake. Then he reverted to her 
passionate dwelling on the wrong that had been done her, supposed 
b}’’ him to be some man’s faithlessness. 

“ She liked me well enough, 1 do believe,” he said, carelessly, and 
without a vestige of vanity underlying the thought. “ But now let 
us talk of ourselves. By the way, you have never yet told me your 
own name?” 

Eva could bear this tension no longer. She rose now and looked 
at him with inexpressible wistfulness, yet no ghastly betrayal; she 
would be mistress of herself if the short agony killed her. 

“ To morrow will do,” she said, smiling calmly as the dying 
smile. “ I will rest now. Fare thee well, dear.” 

Then bending low she kissed him on tUe brow. The strange 
sweetness and searchingness of that long look did not strike Arthur 
at the time; he was accustomed to find in her face what he found 
nowhere else under heaven. But the unwonted pallor and sudden 
evidence of bodily endurance strained to the utmost gave a moment- 
ary feeling of uneasiness. 

“ 1 cannot bear to leave you, even till t«-morrow,” he whispered. 

But Eva would stay for no lover-like speeches. With her hand 
on the door she once more glanced at him, tenderness, thankfulness, 
benison unutterable in her eyes. A reiterated farewell trembled on 
her pale lips. Then he was alone. 

All was perfectly still, and Arthur, having finished his drawing, 
noiselessly put together his sketching things and stole down-stairs. 
She would sleep, he said, and he must be more careful of her health 
in future. The long forest rambles must be cut short. He had not 
now to do with the robust organization of country-bred maidens like 
Elizabeth and Flora, Out with a physique of finer strain. Eva’s 
naturally magnificent health, as she confessed, had been undermined 
by mental suffering. Months must elapse before she sho*uld be fair- 
ly herself. 

On the whole, however, he went away in a cheerful frame of 
mind. By sunset next day he should be back again, and for other 
reasons no less important than the purchase of the wedding-ring he 
was forced to cross the sea. 

There was a banker on the Old World seaport opposite with whom 
he had certain business to transact; he also wanted to consult some 


LOYE AKD MIKAGE. 


91 

able lawyer as to the steps necessary for Ihe legalization of such a 
marriage on German soil. And this blissful bridegroom, no more 
than any other, would greet his bride-elect empty-handed. On this 
island not so much as a silver-thimble was to be purchased, but 
surely some beautiful bridal gift might be found in a city numbering 
a hundred thousand souls! 

So in elate spirits he set oft, making light of the long descent 
through the forest. The path wound downward all the way, and 
two hours’ brisk walking brought him to the little harbor lying close 
under the wooded scarp. The steamer was there, and in a quarter 
of an hour was gliding gently over the uniufiled crystalline sea. 


CHAPTER XXVlll. 

WHITHER? 

Where was Eva’s joy now ? 

As long as Arthur remained in the adjoining room she was forced 
to exercise self-control. Not a sigh escaped her lips, not a moan of 
pain; rigid as a statue she awaited his going. But when at last she 
heard the door close after him, she threw herself on her bed, past 
weeping, past praying; only low, stifled sobs betrayed the inner con- 
flict. Oh! Fate was pitiless. There was no hope, no joy, no love 
left for this poor Eva to cling to any more; she must just drift away 
on the tide of misery, and let despair do with her as it would. Those 
fond, foolish dreams of yestreen, where were they now? The n turn 
home as Arthur’s wife, her father’s recovery, reconcilement with her 
sisters — had she, indeed, for a brief moment believed in these things? 
Yes, Elizabeth and Flora might be made happy, but in another way^ 
not by their sister Eva; their bliss she could never share. For no 
misconception of Arthur’s narrative was possible. He had first seen 
Elizabeth and won her heart, and she knew this sweet, steadfast 
Elizabeth well. Other girls might easily fancy themselves in love 
with a frank, chivalrous Englishman after Arthur’s pattern; Eliza- 
beth never would. If she cared for any man at all, her feeling 
would be deep and unalterable. Nor was she at all likely to enter- 
tain romantic dreams about any one indifterent to her, she must 
have relied upon Arthur Venning’s liking before venturing to like 
him in return. 

It was all as clear as day. Only one reason had prevented Eliza- 
beth from accepting Arthur’s love. She was too proud to marry, 
because of the shame that had fallen on her house; she refused him 
on account of her sister’s dishonor. But for her own sister,, her 
elder sister, Elizabeth might yet become a happy wife. 

This conviction took possession of Eva’s troubled spirit, as if it 
were some horrible agency at work upon body and brain; some en- 
gine invented for torture, or dire seps insinuating poison and agony 
into every vein, drying up the springs of life and hope. 

Her sweet Elizabeth, her own fond little sister! VYas it net enough 
to have ruined her prospects, overwhelmed her with shame, broken 
her mother’s heart, wrecked her father’s reason — must she also steal 
her lover’s heart? 


92 


LOVE AND MIRAGE. 


Arthur might taKe his wife home indeed. What would Elizabeth 
feel when she recognized in Eva’s husband her own lover — the man, 
but for Eva’s wrong-doing, she might herself have married? 

It must never be. 

There was only one way of saving Elizabeth. She must hide her- 
self from Arthur, flee from him straightway, and discover some se- 
cure hiding-place where love like his could never find her out. ^ But 
where? This island offered no such harborage, Arthur knew it far 
too well. Before nightfall, moreover, on the morrow he would be 
back again. In this short space of time whither could she betake 
herself, leaving not a trace behind? For one thing she felt sure of; 
if Arthur followed her, as he undoubtedly would, and it he discov- 
ered her retreat, he would insist on the 'fulfilment of her promise. 
Elizabeth would be sacrificed. A second time her elder sister would 
prove her baleful star. 

But it not? Ah! even thus poor Eva might yet bring about good 
and not evil. Hid from, Arthur’s ken forever, he was sure in time 
to master himself, to woo a second time, and finally win Elizabeth 
as his bride. For her sister Eva’s sake she would grow all the dearer 
to him. The racking misery of conflict at last spent itself, and 
blank, cold despair took its place. Eva sat up and tried to think. 
She pictured the bright future in store for her sisters — the pair wed- 
ded to these generous English brothers; their home made in happy 
England, far away from the scene of their sorrow and shame. Per- 
haps even their father’s madness would yield to these blissful influ- 
ences, and he might yet spend a happy and honored old age by the 
fireside of a son-in-law. The old man would be made welcome for 
his sweet daughters’ sake. And in time would not Eva and her 
awful story be almost forgotten — Eva herself fade from the memory 
of these happy ones? Or if not faded utterly, might she not become 
a half sorrow only, a name to be wept over gently? Elizabeth and 
Flora would tell tlieir children of a gifted Aunt Eva lost to them 
forever — would perhaps even call some little daughter after her, in 
token of forgiveness, and as they grew older and wiser and sadder, 
would think of her kindly, would love her as in their childish days. 

And Arthur Venning, her generous protector, tier magnanimous 
bridegroom, would not he also forget? Men are strong and proud; ' 
they subdue their griefs and live them down as women cannot do. 
He will be happy. He loves me, thought Eva, but how much may 
generosity and pity have determined him to make me his wife? And 
admiration also — my little beauty he said he should be so proud of. 
But Elizabeth is beautiful too, and Elizabeth will hold him all the 
dearer for having tried to save her poor Eva! 

She felt inclined to weep now, and almost able to pray, but the 
soft mood passed. She dared not weep; she must steel her heart 
against self-pity. 

Eva was in a crisis of destiny when personality merged in larger 
interests, and the ego, the individuality, the thinking, suffering, sen- 
tinent self, virtually ceases to be, or is as if it were not. She must 
consider life and the world wholly irrespective of her own existence 
—to think and act indeed as if Eva herself did not exist at all. This 
self-annihilaiion must natuially be the precursor of all deeds of su- 
perhuman heroism or self-devotion. None could voluntarily immo- 


LOVE AND MIRAGE. 


93 


late liimself to duty, patriotism, or sentiment, unless that self had 
been hrst shriveled to nothingness. Eva, then, having made up her 
mind that she must sacrifice herself for her sister’s sake, could hard- 
ly weep over her own life any more. There was now nothing left to 
wish tor or hope. Life— as much of meaning as it had for her — 
could niean blank endurance only. Her plain duty was to hide her- 
self forever and forever from those she loved. 

But where? 

The warm after-glow had filled the little chamber, and the soft air 
seemed to stifle her. She would go out-of doors, she thought, and 
try to make a plan ; for the dire problem must be solved at once. 

Where could she hide herself? 

"What a prison seemed this island and life to Eva, as she lingered 
by her window and looked out wistfully. Far away stretched the 
forest- reaches, just gilded by the rays of the setting sun, and as she 
stood thus motionless, the murmur of the sea was audible from afar. 
But the forest offered no hope of escape, nor the sea either, for Ar- 
thur knew H nook and corner; and if she set sail on the morrow, the 
very vessel that bore her away would meet that of her returning 
lover. As she lingered thus, all other thoughts merged in that des- 
perate one where should she hide herself? The after-glow faded, 
and twilight stole on apace. Already the beechen groves about the 
chalet were growing dusk, and in the pure gray of evening every ob- 
ject wore a subdued aspect of tender, inviting melancholy. This 
ancient forest is never more impressive than in the twilight of early 
autumn. In summer the birds sing, and the sound of the wood- 
man’s ax breaks the hush, but with the first September mists ineffa- 
ble solitude and stillness steal over the scene, precursors of the long, 
silent reign of snow. 

Eva looked and listened as if waiting for a voice, some answer to 
the question that had shaped itself into doom. All her thouirhts 
wefe now naiTowed to a point, all her faculties bent upon one object 
— she must escape this happiness with Arthur. But how? 

The twilight shadows deepened, and great calm infolded the 
island world. To Eva rather a resting-place than a prison it seemed 
now — no career of bruised and broken spirit; instead a quiet haunt 
for tired body and brain dedicate to oblivion and eternal rest. 

And as little by little she let this thought take possession of her 
mind, despair was no longer written on her face, but in its place a 
certain unwonted calm, an almost startling aloofness from things 
sweet and human. 

If smiles were banished from it for evermore, so at least were 
tears, and no more anguish-stricken remorse or self-pity, only cold, 
collected resignation and passiveness. 

The sea had not responded to her, nor the forest, but at last she 
had hearkened to a voice within, and accepted its awful mandate. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

REFUGE. 

Grayly and soothingly evening enticed Eva to herself, as some 
mild mother inviting to rest a weary child. Warm, golden light 
still lingered about the chalet, but night was fast stealing over the 


94 


LOVE AKD MIEAGE. 


forest, and already the black pine-tops showed faintly against the so- 
ber heavens. No brilliant constellations shining out of intense pur- 
ple skies, no sharp definitions of held and shadow to-night ; instead 
creeping mists and crepuscular gloom, with tender, subdued mel- 
ancholy infolding all things. It was as if earth and heaven wore a 
veil out of pit for human sorrow, and Nature herself were moved 
to compassion for one breaking heart. 

Hardly misery was written on Eva’s face as she walked gently to- 
ward the forest; rather a look of cold, hard resolve, peihaps even of 
satisfaction. The supreme valediction to life and hope were sriven; 
all she needed now was Kest, and that she knew right well where to 
find. Oh! to be beyond reach of compassionating love and retribu- 
tive memory, the world’s superciliousness and the frown of the cruel 
'—at peace forever and forever! 

She followed a path she knew well — she had taken it with Arthur 
many a time — a little traverse leading through the beechen forest to 
the Stone of Sacrifice and the Black Lake. It was still a twilight 
world in which she moved, and in the open spaces might be seen yet 
a pearly sky bending over the dusky trees, and tender, rosy lights 
flickering here and there. Night was imminent, but had not yet 
come. When she reached the opening in the heart of the wood, she 
sat down and wept a little. A momentary softness came over her; 
she would fain for a brief space havii rested her head on some kind 
bosom, and poured out a last* word or twm of penitence or prayer. 
She thought then that such a farewell ought not to be made without 
some shrift, some final appeal to Love, human and divine. It 
seemed then as it in. a sentence she could have said all there was to 
say on her own behalf, and summarized her life, with its pitiful 
shortcomings and sorrows, so as to win plenar}'- pardon alike from 
friends and judge. In God’s forgiveness she never doubted. 

Yes, the sting of separation was here; she could never now plead 
for herself as none could plead for her. None would ever be in a 
position to judge her aright. The’subtlety with which she had been 
tempted, the poignancy of her remorse, who could measure? If, 
indeed, we know not our own weakness till too late, shall others, 
coldly judging, better appraise us? 

She wept tor a while out of sheer human forlornness, and mur- 
mured the names dear and familiar to her. In one overmastering 
moment of passionate longing she called on Elizabeth, her father, 
Arthur, but they could not hear. She was alone— no human thing 
so lonely under the vast heavenv 

VTliile she waited thus for night to come, with tears in her eyes 
and self-pity in her heart, one especial scene of her childhood flashed 
before her with nnwe than the vividness of dreams. She recalled a 
forest- scene like this, when toddling by her father’s side they had 
been overtaken by the gloaming. So little was she that it was the 
first time she had ever seen the stars out-of-doors, and w^hen the 
shadows frighted her and the solitude, how well she remembered it! 
her father Irad taken her in his strong arms, soothing her to sleep, 
and she remembered nothing more till it was moining. The sun 
shone on her little bed; all the gloom and the terror had vanished. 
There was the sweet, bright day with its full measure of cheerful- 
ness and attection, a mother’s love, a father’s pride, the prattle of 


LOVE AXD l^rTKAGE. 


95 


baby sisters; and now she was alone. Strange to have been so 
smiled upon and cared for once, and now to meet the end thus deso- 
late 1 

One question flashed across her mind too awful to dwell upon; 
that childish adventure in the forest, the momentary tremor, the ap- 
parent peril, the joyful climax. Might she discover here a parallel, 
a prophecy, apj^cable to her present case? Had this dark day also 
a to-morrow? Was there a morning beyond the grave? 

Then she recalled the conversation with Arthur Venning two 
short days ago. They were sitting on the Stone of Sacrifice, where 
now she sat alone, and she had half playfully recalled its legend. 
Little did she think how soon those fearful rites she described then 
would be renewed, and that in these happy modern days the Black 
Lake was to receive its victim. For, said Eva, fancifully following 
up this thought, might not the allegory apply to her own story? 
Was she not one of the ministers to self-passion, call it by what 
name we will, they had spoken of, that self-centered force or blind 
impulse that sooner or later turns upon us a Nemesis? 

Looking back on life-now, an alert conscience acting the part of 
umpire, she could but feel that it she had been more sinned against 
than sinning, yet had she grievously sinned; and that if she were a 
victim of othei’s WTong-doing, her own lapse, nevertheless, needed 
expiation. She must, to use Arthur’s words, be tried, as clay in the 
fire, fitted for a better being if God so willed it by his annealing. 
So she lingered, weeping, praying, yet unmoved from her implaca- 
ble purpose, almost, indeed, clinging to her resolve as if it were a 
duty. She must be hidden from sight and forgotten in order that 
the guileless Elizabeth should be made happy. Not twice must 
Elizabeth’s heart be w^ell-nigh broken by her elder sister. 

Eva lingered, and had some kind human being crossed her desolate 
path then, she might have been saved to more sorrow but — can w'e 
doubt it? — to a better fate. Had some little straying child come that 
way, and putting its hand in hers, begged to be led home, some 
woodman stricken in years, recalling her father, all might yet have 
been otherwise for her and her loved ones. But none came, and 
meantime night was there. Eva waited till the last glimmer of rosy 
light should vanish from the west, and the distant forest rim hardlj’^ 
break the horizon, then she knew what she should do. The way 
back to the chalet was easy to find, yet not hard to miss. Nothing 
cruel or in scorn should be said of her afteiwaid The fisher folk 
would hereafter recount how a stranger lost her way one gloon^y 
autumn night, and strayed into the Black Lake. The story would 
be told thus, and if Arthur guessed another version of it, he would 
hold his peace. The gathering darkness deepened. Soon hardly a 
vesture of day lingered in the west, and no sharp demarkation of 
forest and sky was any longer visible, only a gentle gradation of in- 
termingling shadows. Eva glanced toward the opening through 
which she had passed, and saw that the bright vista of an hour ago 
made only a just perceptible break in the prevailing somberness. 
She took that for a sign. There was nothing more to wait for. No 
bidding but this one had made itself audible. She must obey and 
leave the rest. So'slie went the dark way, as some poor wounded 
bird that flutters toward dusky covert, there to die unmolested. Eva 


LOVE AXD XITIAOE. 


let the night suck her in, darKness infold her with murky wings, 
silence claim her as its own. Not a sound broke the stillness of the 
forest, not a star shone out of the heavens. Night had come indeed. 

But was the day far behind? A few short hours of gloom and 
silence, a brief trance-like spell of quietude, and the pure light of 
morning would glimmer in the east, a cheerful twitter of birds break 
the stillness of the forest, slowly but surely heralding the dawn. 
And may not some clear day-spring await Eva’s soul? Is not the 
veil of darkness to be lifted from that sorely tried spirit after the 
tribulation and the tomb? For sin and sorrow are finite, but the 
Eternal Wisdom that compasseth us round about hath no limitation. 
Let not the inadequacy of human judgment blaspheme the pity of 
Heaven I 


CHAPTER XXX. 

REACTIONS. 

It was little likely that Arthur Venning should escape a transitory 
yet tremendous reaction of feeling when first left to his own 
thoughts. Fascinated to desperation by Eva’s beauty, and melted by 
the forlornness of her position, he had bound himself to what? A 
marriage, the secret of which none must know, and which would 
hang over his head like the sword of Damocles as long as he lived. 
Arthur Venning just missed being a commonplace man as he knew 
right well, but he could not help asking himself now if he were in 
the least degree heroic. Could he brazen the shame and scorn that 
should come through a wife? And as he asked himself this ques- 
tion he smiled ironicall}’' at the difference between dreams and fact, 
a man’s ideal and the shape into which circumstances mold it. It 
there was one thing he had felt ambitious about it was marriage. 
When he married, he always said to himself, he should look, per- 
haps, foolishly high, but otlierwise would never dream of marrying 
at all. He should in this matter look well before and after, taking 
into account alike his honorable lineage and the generation to come. 
His children, if he had any, should be able to boast, of their mother. 
And now? 

Not for one awful moment did Arthur Venning contemplate a 
base declension, an abject recoil. By his manly word he would 
stand as long as he lived, and nothing endured for Eva’s sake should 
ever wring from him as much as a look of betrayal. But the truth 
of his position did for a brief interval humiliate and appall him. 
The most worldly-minded Nestor could not have made the nature 
of his sacrifice clearer. 

The dark thought vrould go as it had come, he felt sure of that; 
but why had it come at all? There was the sting. Was the good 
opinion of the world to be put in the balance with Eva’s love? Was 
he, in deed and in truth, a worldling after all? If so, then Eva could 
never be sure of him, much less could he answer for himself; and 
his very generosity might prove a curse to her instead of a blessing. 

To have to answer for one’s self is a thorny and uphill way to 
heroism. Even a poor creature may do a splendid deed on a sud- 


LOVE AND MIRAGE. 


97 

den; but to be obliged to make sure of ourselves by long looks 
ahead, to feel under the necessity of sentineling the weak places 
and setting watch over untoward impulses — ah! who but trembles 
at the prospect of such palmary proof, such fiery ordeal? 

Arthur Venning was well aware that up to a certain point he was 
of the world, worldly. Well-bred and well-born, with just enough 
means to make these conditions acceptable, he had hitherto escaped 
anything like a buffet of fate or fortune. But this smooth, honora- 
ble, and not by any means purposeless existence, was that of a man 
of the world? 

He often and often said of himself that his very aptitudes suffered 
from overmuch ease and prosperity; he, with more ambition, might 
have been less successful, but the gain would have been greater than 
the loss. It ambition counted for little in his past life, passion 
counted for nothing at all. Till this waiting on the island he did 
not understand the meaning of the word. He loved this beautiful 
Eva as he never dreamed of loving. Ho questioning, no dubious- 
ness here. She was the first woman he had ever seen with whom 
he would wish to live. The sacrifice he was called upon to make 
for such happiness was surely small. 

It galled him beyond measure that the conviction of sacrifice 
forced itself upon him and could not be got rid of. He was over- 
come by the sense of his own inadequacy — a dread lest Eva should 
discover limitations in his nature undoing the very generosity 
which made her adorable to him. It was I he world he feared, and 
he saw clearly how it might eventually come between them. Ar- 
thur was not by any means romantic; he had seen a good deal of 
life; he knew well enough that marriage means not only sentiment 
and poetry, but the prosaic life of every day with its little carking 
cares and mean little miseries. There was only one way of making 
happiness sure for himself and Eva: they must hide themselves 
from the world. 

Then he mused somewhat scornfully. England, at least, the cult- 
ured, aesthetic, over-refined life of London, is not the universe. 
Existence was surely to be tolerated elsewhere. And with this 
thought came another, also calling up a supercilious smile. 

If the world was little to Arthur Yenning, how much less was 
Arthur Yenning to the world! Were I, for instance, he reasoned, 
by some untoward accident to meet with my end on this island, how 
long should I be remembered? Perhaps a day, maybe a sennight, 
certainly not longer. And if I were to take back some Scandinavian 
peasant maiden as my bride and parade her in fashionable circles, 
wearing the gala costume of her canton, that would be no more 
than a nine days' wonder to what we are pleased to call society 
either. Let society unearth Eva’s story and enjoy its nine days' 
wonder, an’ it will! My life is my own, to do with it as I please. 
After all, he concluded, with the airy yet conscious cynicism of one 
who has lived his whole life in the world, dead or living, set on a 
pinnacle or flouted and bemired, it is all one. Self is the micro- 
scope that makes us slaves of opinion. 

Having thus had his fling at himself and society, Arthur gave way 
wholly to joyful thoughts. They would travel and make their home 
in some bewitching nook of Italy or Southern France, and there 
4 


98 


LOVE AKD ^riRAGE. 


suffice for one another. For years to come they would avoid the 
perils and pitfalls ot London. Then he prefigured Eva’s rapture at 
the first sight ot Athens and Granada, the sweet, quiet days they 
should spend in lovely places together, the hooks they should read, 
the work they should project under these delicious influences. One 
practical misgiving dismayed his lover-like transports: he fortunate- 
ly possessed an income adequate to his wants, but he must now 
think of another. The notion of being straitened in means after 
marriage was odious to him. A superb woman like Eva, if not sur- 
rounded with the sumptuousness and splendor that would so well 
become her, must have no sordid cares. The very first thing he had 
to do was to make sure of more liberal earnings; no hard matter, 
forsooth, with her to spur him on to excellence he had not yet at- 
tained either in literature or art. 

Everything, therefore, happily settled in his mind, he at last re- 
embarked for his island and his bride. Things had gone against his 
wishes since quitting Eva three days ago. Hardly had he touched 
the opposite shore when a squall arose, one of those sudden storms 
of wind and rain that put piompt return out of the question. He 
might be able to cross in two or three days, so the sailors said, but 
could promise nothing. There he was, and there he'must abide 
till the weather mended. Two days were not too much for all he 
had to do, and Eva would be under no anxiety about him he com- 
forted himself with thinking. The storm would account for his 
non-appearance. On the third day, however, he did begin to chafe 
at untoward fortune. The wind still blew a terrific hurricane, the 
rain fell in torrents, and the sea raged angrier than ever. Getting 
back was as problematic as if it had been two days ago. 

He now made up his mind to wait no longer, but reach the island 
by a roundabout route practicable at all times. A long railway jour- 
ney must be first made, then the island sea crossed by ferry-boat at 
the point where it narrowed to a mere channel, finally the island 
traversed tediously from end to end by the mail-cart. 

But an^dhing seemed better than fretting away another day in in- 
action. So he set off; even six hours’ railway traveling at a snail’s 
pace, through one of the dismalest regions in Europe, and in deplor- 
' able weather, could not damp his spirits. Read ion had followed 
reaction. He now bitterly blamed himself for the ungenerous 
thoughts of yesterday. Life and the outer world seemed bewilder- 
ing and rapturous to him as he journeyed toward his island and its 
fairy hopes. Much more than mere lover’s triumph elated him now. 
It was Eva’s dazzling beauty and pensive stateliness that had first 
taken him captive, then her pathetic history that had overwhelmed 
him with passionate pity. With a woman so beautiful, so rarely 
endowed, and so sweet, it were good to ^ive. And should not a man 
live for something better and deeper than the applause of society, 
and that hateful thing called success? Then he thought ot Hervey, 
reproaching himself for his roughness and acerbity during their last 
interview. Hervey was going to make the perilous leap, too, and 
had doubtless long ago forgotten and forgiven. He could not blame 
his brother certainly. Flora was the very wife for him; of Eliza- 
beth he must not think as yet. In the meantime the weather showed 
signs of mending, and by the time he reached the coast the storm 


LOVE AKD MIRAGE. 


99 


had spent its fury. There was, therefore, no longer any necessity to 
cross the island by road. A steamer being ready to start when Arthur 
reached the harbor, he could now reach his destination by the 
quicker route he had taken with flervey a few weeks before. 

The storm had cleared, but there was no sudden break of sun- 
shine, no instantaneous sparkle and glitter of a jeweled earth washed 
clean by the rain, but a quiet, gradual clearing away of mist and 
rain. It was, indeed, a slow, steady transition from summer brill- 
iance to autumn mellowness. The hurricane had marked the close 
of one season and the beginning of another. The quiet harmonies 
of the island, along which the steamer gently coasted, were subaued 
to yet softer tones. Almost a sublimer world it seemed now to Ar- 
thur as he sailed over silvery seas under a cool, gray sky. Hardly 
a zephyr blew from the lee shore, and the waters of the small inland 
seas,' traversed one after another, seemed almost supernatural iy be- 
calmed, The deep indentures of the coast gave this little cruise 
rather the semblance of thridding an archipelago, so nearly like 
islands these tiny promontories and headlands. 

Lovely and dreamlike the scene, all the lovelier and more dream- 
like because it shifted so quickly. Now the little steamer glided 
gently between twin cantons that seemed made for pleasure only, 
smooth, verdurous spaces sloping down to the crystal waves; now- 
it passed under natural parapets, silvery bright, yet aerial, as if 
destined to melt away on the morrow. Far way was the open sea, 
with many an islet breaking its surface line, both pale and lovely as 
cloudland. The indescribable witchery of the scene, the delicate 
opalescent color, the magic stillness fascinated Arthur anew. He 
felt as it he now, for the first time, realized the beauty of this little 
land twice islanded from the common world. Three days' sojourn 
on the frigid plains opposite made it seem doubly a fairy haunt. He 
was lost in admiration of these aiiy combinations of color, so delicate 
and pure as to be hardly colors at all ; these matchless harmonies of 
form, so ethereal and exquisitely penciled that it seemed as if a 
shower of rain would wash them away. He could hardly believe 
that he Lad gazed on the self -same scenery a little while ago. Was 
it that awakening of deepest feeling intensified his powers of appre- 
ciating nature? or did he happen just then simply to be in a more 
generous and sympathetic frame of mind? He was aroused from 
his reverie by a sudden commotion on board, one of those unanimous 
movements that betoken some emotion or passion electrifying a vast 
concourse of people. Every face looked one way, every one turned 
on his heel, and a moment later a cry of ecstasy was ringing from 
one end of the vessel to the other. 

“ The mirage! the mirage!” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

MIRAGE. 

Arthur gazed with the rest. Meantime at a signal from the cap- 
tain the helmsman’s hand paused on the wheel, the ship’s pace was 
slackened. For a brief space she all but stood still. They were now 
far away from the shore, and to all appearances, although it was not 


100 


LOVE AND 3IIKAGE. 


SO, in the open sea. The coast in view on one side was dim and 
shadowy, on the other a mere line, hardly deeper in color than the 
waves, not a flashing: sheer, not a glistenin*? sail anywhere to be seen. 
The little crait was a solitary thing between sleepy summer seas and 
warm, amber sky. 

All at once that sweet, strange monotony vanished, and over against 
the steamer and tlie island the heavens showed miraculous transfor- 
mation. It was as if the vast span of golden cloudland weie sud- 
denly withdrawn, unveiling a fair city built on a stately hill. In the 
midst rose a church of the olden time, while round about 'were 
clustered dwellings, such as men use now with many a garden slop- 
ing toward the sun. A pleasant place it seemed, and joyous too, 
with a certain majesty imparted by its rare site and ancient walls, 
giving it the appearance of a citadel built to dominate the sea. For 
where the velvety swards, flung about it as a mantle, ended, the sea 
began, while running bacii from the marge were sunny, bil- 
lowy corn-lands and a broad, shining road that curled about the 
hills. It was not only the exquisite outline of this aOrial landscape 
that made it unforgetable, stamping the picture on the minds of the 
beholder as is stamped the first view of “Athens from the harbor or 
Venice from the Adriatic — just such a majestic little cit}’’ and gra- 
cious environment we may see any day in Greece, Italy, and, for the 
matter of that, France; but where find such rainbow pencilings, 
such unimagined yet subdued glories of color? This ancient min- 
ster, with its mediaeval dwellings, fair open gardens, and vast cham- 
paign, was painted on the heavens in hues unfamiliar to human 
eyes. Kot only each dye was purer, more ethereal, yet deeper than 
those known to us by the same name, but here were to be seen 
colors and gradations absolutely undreamed of, the whole scene 
bathed in gemm}'' light. The ruddy glow of the sard, the brilliance 
of the beryl, the bright rays of the chrysolite, the deep-hued hyacinth 
were here, and all the loveliest dyes we meet in shells, flowers, 
feathers of birds, and all other radiant things. But although Ihe 
colors we know of, and many more strange to mortal ken, were thus 
brought together in dazzling juxtaposition, the blending was so com- 
plete, the harmony so perfect, that none need fear to gaze. The warm, 
jeweled radiance, moreover, was subdued to a certain paleness and 
apparent evanescence, so that to the spectator every second was 
precious. The spectacle was as real as it could be while it lasted, 
but it could not last long. A transparence and airiness, a suggestion 
of unreality not to be defined, went far to lone down what "would 
otherwise have been an almost unbearable intensity of light and 
color. The picture was rendered all the clearer and more impress- 
ive, by the soft golden radiance of the sky, on this delicious back- 
ground the city and its surroundings being penciled in lines of pure 
silver. All eyes were riveted on this scene, when suddenly they 
discerned a feature of it hitherto missed. So exquisite and com- 
plete the first impression, so magically had the phantasmagoria 
broken upon the beholders, that no one had as yet been collected 
enough to make out any details. Now, however, when the firet 
transport had passed away, and they could gaze calmly, they were 
aware of a thing— of dream within dream, vision within vision, 
marvel capping marvel. This fair city that had arisen frorq the 


LOYE AKD HIEAGE. 101 

clouds was no abode of Ions: buried dead, no place under a spell of 
perpetual dreams and drowsy head. Life was here, and pao-eantry 
at the first glance as it seemed, of joyful kind. ° 

^ What had just now worn the semblance of a mere blotch of sun- 
light on the picture, a whiteness and silveriness as of a gaixlen of 
lilies when closely regarded, showed symmetry and coherence. 

No accidental brightness was this but a stately procession that had 
wound from the interior of the island toward the cathedral, and in 
the fair, open space just below now made solemn pause. Surely 
some bridals were about to be celebrated in the minster on the hill ; 
if not, what could mean the long train of maidens dressed in white,' 
headed by a priest and acolyte, also snowy- vestured and with solemn 
gait? So long was the procession that, as it halted, it made a rib- 
bon-like brightness athwart the hill, reaching from the level ground 
to the very church doors. 

But on a closer scrutiny it was clear that no cheerful pageantry 
was this, and it, indeed, the air was ringing with music, it were 
rather a dirge than a wedding-march. Tliese white-robed girls and 
children, bearing garlands, had their heads bowed as if in grief, and 
on the hill-top toward which they were wending, close under the 
church porch, rested what looked like a flower-crowned bier. 

It was then some maiden the fisher-folk were bearing to the grave. 
The fair pageant painted on the sky meant no joyous bridal, but a 
solemn preparation for the tomb. The procession halted, and, was it 
fancy or might it indeed be? over the glassy waters, borne through 
the still air, were now wafted strains of music, sweet voices of youths 
and maidens chanting psalm or evangely to the accompaniment of 
rustic plaintive instruments. Most sweet and insinuating was this 
stream of melody as it came from afar, soft, flute-like tones, and the 
piercingly tender psaltery alternating with the deep, rich notes of 
the solemn trombone. 

Now the music swelled into a grand volume of sound, and now it 
died away on the ear; now it was a passionate outpouring of grief, 
and now a sigh of resignation; Prayer breathed in these homely yet 
moving symphonies, and hope, pity, and mysterious questioning of 
destiny, with pious leaning on the Divine Will. It w'as as if an 
angelic choir were poised on this golden stair, between earth and 
heaven, interceding with divine pity on behalf of mortals gone 
astray. No cithara or citole, touched by seraphic hands, could be 
sweeter than the music of these rustic pipes attuned to the clean- 
treble of boys and girls. And all the while the song they sung 
yet seemed for comfort. An intense, unspeakable pathos thrilled 
through every note. Some uncommon sorrow, some out-of-the 
way grief evidently prompted this ineffable song, so unearthly 
sweet, so interpenetrated with tenderness and pity and love. 
Did every soul on board receive this mysterious music? or was it an 
impression, a delusion, that only touched the ear through the fancy 
of one or two? None cared just now to question his neighbor, or 
peradventure would ever care. But the mirage, of which every soul 
present had heard of from his forefathers, was there. One and all 
stood transfixed with delight and astonishment, but, most of all, Ar- 
thur Venning. As he gazed and gazed, he asked himself the meaning 
of it; where had he before seen the real semblance of this city in the 


102 


LOVE AND MIRAGE. 


clouds? The entire scene, he could not doubt it, was quite familiar 
to him; he had seen more than once, and with waking eyes, this 
self-same ancient church crowning the pleasant hills. The little 
scattered city with its hanging garden^, and the fair open country 
round about, he seemed to know equally well. That road winding 
ribbon-like upward he had certainly climbed more than once. Not 
a feature of the scene was new to him; he gazed and gazed, and by 
degrees the truth dawned; the cloud-picture w'as but ah image or 
eidolon of the little capital of the island, now hidden from sight, 
but not far away. He recalled his journe3’^s thither — the first made 
alone, the second with Hervey — and could now discover in these 
aerial reflections an exact counterpart of what he had seen then, 
only instead of massive piles and solid masonry, sunny lawns and 
waving t?orn-fi elds, he now saw their image painted in radiant hues 
on a pale, golden sky. He well remembered, on the occasion of that 
second journey made with Hervey, how he had been struck by the 
dreamlike loveliness of the scene; he had even compared the island 
citadel to some Eastern city with crystal dome surmounting an 
amethystine pyramid. Yet he had not exaggerated, and seeing the 
same picture now, not in realit}'’ but through the medium of aerial 
portraiture, he felt that his comparison did not overshoot the mark. 
Exquisite had been the reality, exquisite the image, and neither the 
one nor the other were to be adequately described, much less por- 
trayed. Far too delicate and airy, in the one as in the other, the 
subtle gradations of color, the radiant pencilings of outline, ever to 
be caught by painter, whatever a poet might do with such a subject. 
As he thought of the phenomenon, the more and more did he feel 
able to explain it. Some village maiden was being buried that day 
under the shadow of the Doni, and the peasant girls from far and 
near had accompanied the bier to its resting-place. Long and tedi- 
ous the journe,y from hamlet buried in the forest to the capital on 
the hill, and welcome the halt midway between plain and church. 

. Priest and acolyte, white-robed mourners and fiower-crow'ned bier, 
were all imaged in the woudrously transparent atmosphere with their 
environment. Nor, when his mind dwelled on the music, the al- 
most superhuman pathos of it and the bell-like distinctness of every 
sound, did he find this phenomenon inexplicable. Abnormal con- 
ditions of the atmosphere would as readily account for one marvel 
as another, and both were not unheard of in this little fabled land, 
land of marvels now as of yore. 

Least of all did sadness or auyfoieshadowing of evil enter Arthur 
Venning’s mind. Even among these hardy island folks maidens 
must die, more’s the pity. 

Maidens must die, mused Arthur, for a moment; but when the 
cloud pageantry was lost sight of, he turned to his own afitairs with 
thoughts elastic and heart elate. 

A few hours more and he should be with Eva. A short day or 
two and the old life of the world should have ended for him, and the 
new life of love and single-mindedness begin. 


LOYE AND MIRAGE. 


103 


CHAPTER XXXll. 

'*THE BEAUTIFUL ALSO MUST DIE!” 

” Mr. Arthur Yenning here, tool Now we shall know all.” f 

The harbor had been reached lon^ ago, and Arthur was now al- ‘ 
most at his journey’s end. He had found a carriage at the landing- 
place, 'hut quilted it on the outskirt of the forest, taking a little path 
that led straight to the chalet. He was in the highest spirits, al- 
though not tree from a certain feeling of trepidation to which all of 
us are liable when returning to a place lately left under happy au- 
spices. He was thus accosted by a voice that did not sound wliolly 
unfamiliar to him, as with airy port he wound his way through the 
beechen groves. Looking up he saw a pedestrian, wearing the usual 
garb of a German tourist — Tyrolese hat, 'short gray tunic with green 
collar, buttoned round the waist like a school boy’s, and the invaria- 
ble plaid swung across the shoulders. This wanderer, however, 
wore something that formed no part of the ordinary 1 raveling gear 
of the Teutonic professor. Round his right arm was bound a broad 
band of crape, evidently put on but just now, and where the ends 
met was a white flower tied by white ribbon. The crape band, the 
white flower, and something quite unusual in the speaker’s face, 
arrested Arthur’s attention. In a moment he had recognized the 
frank, pleasant, manly face of the speaker. It was no other than 
the naturalist, the Carl Fleming whom Elizabeth and Flora Flower 
had introduced to him on the very first day he visited the woods in 
company of the sisters. Arthur well remembered his sudden ap- 
pearance and the hint thrown out by him then, that perhaps he 
might return to the island from Iceland in time to find them all 
there. 

But what mystery had Carl Fleming to learn of Arthur Yenning? 
Why this startling gravitj’’ of manner, this look of shock and sorrow? 
The two men greeted each other bareheaded after ceremonious Ger- 
man fashion, and Arthur found himself, he knew not why, mono- 
syllabic and ill at ease. He wanted to find no acquaintances here 
just now, least of all the old friend of Elizabeth and Flora! 

The young professor, while he seemed anxious to unburden him- 
self of some unwelcome piece of news or some weight on his mind, 
was friendly and unconstrained. 

” Strange,” he said. ” Do you remember what occurred on this 
very spot to a day two months ago? We were all here, you, your 
brother, myself, and the two sisters Flower, when 1 inadvertently 
asked Elizabeth after their elder sister, the beautiful Stella, as we 
used to call her. You may not have observed the embarrassment 
and dejection of the two girls, Elizabeth’s downcast eyes, Flora’s 
tears. They let me suppose she was dead*, but it was not so. Eva 
still lived; was on this very island.” 

Arthur felt his attention painfully riveted. A glimmer of the 
truth dawned upon his mind, but of no tragedy as yet. Eva, his 
Eva, Elizabeth’s sister? It could not be. 


104 


LOVE AND MIRAGE, 


The other looked at him with sympathetic understanding. The 
two German sisters and the two English brothers had become 
friends, Carl Fleming knew. Any sorrow touching Elizabeth and 
Flora Flower, Arthur, as well as Hervey Venning, could but feel 
keenly. 

“ Then Eva still lived,” I'leming went on, emphasizing the first 
word, ” and but for my accidental landing here two days ago, her 
sisters might ever have remained in ignorance of her sad fate. 

He pointed sadly and significantly to the crape badge on his right 
arm, and added, 

“We have buried the beautiful Eva this very day — there is no 
church here — under the Dom on the hill.” 

The horrible conviction was already clutching Arthur’s throat, 
ready as some murderous foe to do its Worst. But for one desper- 
ate moment, he held it at bay, wrenching from that hateful grasp the 
joy of an hour ago. He realized that his future was no longer in 
jeopardy, but forfeited forever* Yet as those struggling for dear 
life against deadly odds hope while breath remains, so for a passing 
interval, Arthur Venning fought against despair. It could not be. 
Some cruel freak, some chance coincidence was this. Were there 
not many Evas in the world, and, perchance, one other worthy to 
be compared to his own? 

He tried to put a decisive question, but words failed him. Uncer- 
tainty was growing more hideous than the truth, yet he remained 
dumb. And all this time his companion was setting down this 
silence and outward impassibility to British phlegm. ‘ ‘ These cold 
English!” thought the demonstrative, somewhat sentimental, but 
really warm-hearted German professor; “ will nothing move them?” 

He continued his narrative all the same: “ 1 reached the chalet on 
my way back to the Continent three days ago to learn that an awful 
catastrophe had just happened. A lady staying here on her way to 
England, whither she was going as teacher, she said, had been found 
drowned in the Dead Lake. Wliat was my sorrow to discover in 
the dead girl Elizabeth’s elder sister, the beautiful, the gifted Eva!” 

Arthur sunk on to a moss-covered stone with loosened limbs and 
ashy cheek; but he would yet be master of himself. He threw his 
knapsack on the ground, the precious knapsack containing the bridal 
gift destined for Eva, and having with him a tiny flask of cordial 
put it to his lips. The draught enabled him to hear the rest with 
some show of composure. 

“This shocks you inexpressibly, I see,” said the other, at last 
convinced that, however little Arthur might betray his feelings, he 
did really grieve for the awful calamity that had befallen Elizabeth 
and Flora. “ It will be long before 1 forget my own horror and dis- 
may when 1 recognized her,” he went on. “1 telegraphed at once 
to the sisters, who 1 learned from the visitor’s list had gone to a little 
seaside resort on the opposite coast, and they got here just in time.” 

“ Elizabeth here?” at last Arthur got out. 

“ She arrived with her sister last night, and much she wants to see 
you. She thinks, perhaps, you can throw some light on this mys- 
tery, as the people at the chalet say that you were often seen talking 
together. Maybe you know, as i know now, something of poor 
Eva’s story. Never breathe my suspicion to her sisters, or your 


LOVE AKD MIRAGE. 


105 

own, if you see things in the same light, but my notion is that the 
proud, unhappy girl came by no accident to her untimely end. She 
could no longer contend with the world’s scorn. Oh!” groaned the 
young man, honestly giving way to an emotion no Englishman 
would have shown before strangers, “ could you have seen Eva 
Flower as 1 saw her five years ago, you would weep like me over 
her unhappy fate. What have we not buried wilh Eva? She was 
a star that shone upon the dull, common world.” 

He wiped away his tears, and pointed to a sunny opening in the 
forest. 

” In yonder glade you and 1 met just eight weeks ago. Do you 
remember how full 1 was of Eva when we two were left alone? 1 
spoke to you of her beauty, and quoted our great poet’s matchless 
threnody, ‘ The beautiful also must die!’ 1 lamented Eva’s supposed 
death then. How much sadder to see her dead and to 16arn how she 
died!” 

He covered his eyes with his hands, as if to shut out a dread pict- 
ure, and groaned. 

” Eva, the same Eva, yet Eva’s self no longer. Why did the 
great Homer call our mortal covering lifeless clay, the man, and re- 
gard the spirit as mere shadow and nothingness? The marble brow, 
the unspeaking eyes, the lips frozen into everlasting silence. Merci- 
ful Heaven! must all that was Eva end in these? But 1 will go,” 
he added, starting up. “We shall both be best alone. 1 am bound 
to the village, and you, of course, are returning to the chalet. Eliza- 
beth much wants to see you ; she thinks you may be able to throw 
light on this terrible mystery. Little Flora”— here he looked sig- 
nificantly at Arthur and smiled— “ Flora, who wore short frocks 
and pinafores when I last saw her, has evidently- the best possible 
comforter. Adieu then, or, rather, till we meet again.” 

He waved his hand, and hastened downward through the forest. 
Arthur, not feeling secure against intruder in the beaten track he 
was following, sought a covert where he might confront his sorrow 
undisturbed and alone. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

ALONE. j 

He sat down in a quiet place that mellow September afternoon, 
and for a while delusive calm held him captive. The blow had 
fallen, but the torture of the wound was yet to make itself felt. 
Arthur Venning was in that state of mind when a transient aloof- 
ness from misery, almost amounting to torpor, made actualities harm- 
less. The words he had just heard were still ringing in his ears 
without meaning. 

This sfveet, solitary island yet belonged to him and to his bride. 
In the tragedy just now revealed to him he bore no part. The dirge 
and the white-robed weepers, the procession and the flower- crowned 
bier, would henceforth belong to dreams. 

This maiden Carl Fleming wept for, buried to-day in the quiet 
graveyard above the sea, could not be the Eva he loved, nor could 
his Eva be Elizabeth’s sister. He had but yielded to the panic of a 


106 


LOVE AND MIKAGE. 


moment, and seen in the strangest coincidence fateful, unimagined 
woe lor himself. Whnt deep, death-like calm brooded over the 
forest! Autumn had mellowed the air, but not yet touched the rich 
foliage; all the glory of summer remained, tempered down to a sober 
melancholy. On such a day as this, an unusual stillness following the 
tremendous storm, the least sound might be heard, but sounds there 
were none. The busy, humming insect life was over for this year. 
Not a bird was astir amid the branches, nor little four fooled thing 
among the' fern leaves; and no sign of human life penetrated these 
solitudes just now. In the summer there would he a chance pedes- 
trian making his way through the forest or a woodman at work 
among the distant reaches, or a party of tourists merrily traversing 
the island on foot. Now all this was over. The vast beech wood 
seemed a cool, green tomb. 

In a dreamy condition, almost amounting to trance, or at least hal- 
lucination, Arthur Venning let an hour glide by. The mellowness 
deepened, the twiligbt shadows were stealing on, but as yet the nook 
in which he had hidden himself was a golden place. Night and 
sorrow seemed as yet far off; it was perhaps the sweetness of the 
hour as much as the deliciousness of the scene that lulled him into 
momentary, illusive peace. It seemed to Artnur Venning as if he 
now beheld this fairy world for the first time. lie had visited these 
sylvan haunts again and again, but somehow the}'" never wore this 
insinuating look of grace, nobility, and loveliness. It was autumn 
that worked the change, autumn the enchanter that steals upon the 
forest unawares, leaving nothing quite as before, imparting a soft- 
ness and suavity wanting in summer time, a tender repose and mel- 
ancholy, too, that wraps the spirit as sweet slumber wrought by fa- 
bled apothegm. 

The truth is, these ancient beechen forests should be frequented, 
as we frequent our friends, in all seasons and all moods. It was im- 
possible that Arthur Venning should have beheld these same scenes, 
because he now looked upon them with w^holly different eyes. Life 
counts not by months nor by years, but by deeds and emotions; and 
to some the awakening of love is as the first consciousness of a soul. 

On a sudden he became aware of the gloaming, and took out his 
watch to look at the time. That little natural action aroused him 
from his stupor and recalled him to himself. 

The awful thought made him its own. The march of time did not 
now matter; there was nothing for him to go back to. In this 
sweet, serene world Eva was not; Eva was dead! 

He faced his misery with the dogged resolve that no living soul 
should ever unveil it. He would keep his secret even from Eliza- 
beth's tender scrutiny; she should find in him a sympathizing friend, 
never her sister’s lover! For one day at least he could surely control 
himself. Time enough to weep for Eva after, when he should be 
alone. 

Then he put together the scattered links of Eva’s narrative, as 
given by herself, by Elizabeth, and Carl Fleming. 

How more than blind he had been not to discover at once that the 
story Elizabeth had told him was Eva’s — the desertion, the dishonor, 
the craving for requital, even revenge! It was not the sweet, im- 


LOVE AiTD MIRAGE. 


107 

petuous, frank Elizabeth who had been wronged; she was telling all 
along her sister’s story, burning with generous impulse to avenge 
her sister’s wrongs. How well he remembered the stray hints 
she had let fall during their first walk in the forest! with what girl- 
ish naivete she had mooted the question of dueling, of a brother’s 
championship, ot baseness in high places! And wdien alone on the 
monticule under the light-house, and she had spoken of w'asted 
hopes and affections, of worldly ruin and a blotted family escutch- 
eon, she was thinking not ot herself but Eva. 

Amid these crowding thoughts one problem forced itself on his 
mina: if Elizabeth had never alluded to herself during these long 
confabulations, she was then heart free, perhaps caring for him all 
the time. Certainly his conduct would not look blameless in Eliza- 
beth’s eyes, whether he concealed his true relation to Eva or no. 

He had indeed asked the younger sister to be his wife, and done 
his utmost to extract a promise from her, and when she refused him 
on conscientious grounds^ as she said, he straightway abandoned her 
altogether. Yet it was hardly his own fault that he had wronged 
Elizabeth past forgiveness. Another, agonized thought; if, indeed, 
Carl Fleming’s surmises were true, what had led Eva lo the des- 
perate deed? Was she actuated by the playful revelation he had 
made concerning Elizabeth, their summer llirtation, their liking for 
each other? Did the elder sister, seeing the younger’s happiness in 
jeopardy, sacrifice herself for her sake? He recalled every circum- 
stance of that last interview, the calm, strange way in which she 
had taken leave ot him. Oh! why had she not thrown herself into 
his arms and told him all? Why had he not divined the truth? 
Then all might yet have been well. 

If not for Elizabeth’s sake, was it for his the dark deed was done? 
Did she at the last dread lest his constancy might not bear the proof 
to which it would inevitably be put? Did she think to save him 
from shipwreck too? or Eva had suffered too much to bear joy 
again, and that conviction was the saddest to bear. Her mind had 
been unstrung, first by a horrible crisis, then by a series of anxious 
hopes and illusions, painfully dispelled one after another. The very 
brightness of her humor during the week’s halt at the chalet was 
fitful. He could not believe it then, but now realized that passing 
fits of intense melancholy alternated with the brilliant, sparkling 
moods that made her an incomparable companion; and if it were so 
when he was by, what might she not have suffered from despond- 
ency during his absence? 

She might, in deed and in truth, mistrust the future and refuse to 
believe in happiness any more after such an experience as hers. And 
even on himself she could, perhaps, hardly bring herself to rely. 
Arthur Venning loved her, and was ready to make her his wife; but 
would he not quail, like other men, before the world’s scorn? 

It is in human nature to blame ourselves for a thousand things 
when bowed down by grief and sudden calamity, and Arthur now 
reproached himself for having quitted Eva at all, and for not having 
divined the reason of her searching look when she bade him farewell. 

It seemed to him, as he lingered in these dreary woods alone, that 
a golden gift of .fortune had dropped into his hand, and he had let 
it fall. But self-reproach was useless. TV hat he had to do was to 


LOVE AKD MIRAGE. 


108 

summon up courage and meet Elizabetli ; and Flora he must also 
encounter, and Hervey too. He would have given worlds to possess 
the island and his grief to himself just then, but that should be when 
the others were once more away. 

On a sudden the forest became inexpressibly somber, and^ almost 
eerie in its deep, unbroken silence and monotony. He rose with hag- 
gard face and dry eyes, and plunged into a side path, then drew back 
horror-stricken. It would lead him by the Black Lake ! 

There was another, less direct way, and he now entered it. The 
gloom and solitude of the twilight appalled him. He thought of 
Eva, and quickened his steps in order to get out of this dread place 
as soon as possible. By little and little all the horror of her fate 
was forcing itself upon his mind. He might be thousands of miles 
away, but one picture would never be got lid of. At unexpected 
times, and in remote scenes, a vision was sure to rise up, darkening 
his spirit and casting a pall over the cReerf ul, sunlit world. 

The vision was there now. As he tnreaded the dark beechen 
groves, it flitted by, no shadowy thing of dreams, as it seemed to his 
morbid fancy, but the living awsonie reality. In this forest gloam- 
ing be was no longer alone. Something sadder even than himself 
was there. He looked up wondering if indeed what the island folk 
said and believed in was true, and that the precincts of the Black 
Lake were haunted by ghostly shapes, or if the news of an hour ago 
had turned him crazy. 

There, flitting through gloomy vistas in the direction of the inau- 
spicious spot, was a black draped flgure, Eva's self. With head 
bowed down and furtive, timid movements, as if anxious for the 
night to cover her, the flgure glided on, Arthur watching it with 
frozen blood and heart that stood still. It seemed to waver in inde- 
cision, and in the gathering gloom he discerned a gesture of despair 
or perhaps of intercession. The head -was for a moment thrown 
bach, the arms upraised in the attitude of a suppliant ; then once 
more, and with hastening steps, the apparition flitted toward the 
dark lake in the forest’s heart close by. 

How Arthur Venning had not a grain of superstition in his nature. 
He knew well enough that the eerie stories told by the islanders con- 
cerning these localities could not be true, that of all who slept the 
last sleep in the Dead Lake none ever disturbed the surrounding soli- 
tudes by ghostly visits. Yet so affected was he by the tragedy just 
brought home to him, and so deeply was he influenced by every ch’- 
cumstance concerning it, the cloud phantasmagoria, the aerial fol- 
lowing to the tomb, that his mind was in a state to receive any im- 
pression. He was sure all the time that it wms but hallucination, 
but for the moment no reality could appear more true. 

There in the somber woods, within ear-shot of him, was Eva — the 
Eva they had buried that day. Just so she must have looked on 
that last dread walk through the forest. It was an image of the woe- 
laden flgure that had come this way three days ago. He could bear 
this tension no longer, and in a minute or two more reached the spot 
where she stood. But no pale ghost was this, no specter; rather it 
seemed a living, hardly less lovely Eva he now held fast. 

“ Arthur, my brother Arthur!” cried Elizabeth; ” I was looking 
for you.” 


109 


LOVE AND MIRAGE. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

BROTHERLY, SISTERLY. 

“ I HAVE sent Flora to bed. The poor little thing was worn out 
with sorrow and fatigue,” Elizabeth -said, as they walked back to 
the chalet. ” Hervey, too, I think drowses. You see, we were 
traveling the greater part of last night; but I could not take any rest 
till 1 had seen you.” 

In a voice that conveyed the most implicit trust in him, and at the 
same time put him on an affectionate standing, the old romantic re- 
lation being left wholly out of sight, a brotherly, sisterly confidence 
and intimacy, by virtue of Flora’s betrothal with Hervey, taking its 
place, she added: 

“Will you tell me everything that passed between my sister Eva 
and yourself?” without the remotest suspicion that Arthur could 
have anything to conceal. 

“ Had we not better put off talking till to-morrow?” Arthur asked. 

“No,” she answered, with decision; “1 shall be better able to 
bear this trouble when 1 know all.” Here her voice dropped to an 
agonized whisper as she added, “ 1 will conceal nothing from you. 
We must keep this from Flora; but 1 cannot help thinking Eva tied 
to death as a refuge. She had suffered so much, and knew how 
much suffering she had caused others. It must have been so.” 

Arthur Venning was dumb. He let her lead him to their little 
sitting-room — the chalet was empty, and they could have had as 
many rooms as they pleased now — but there speech did not come. 

Elizabeth wept a little before she could say a word more, and he 
had scant comfort to give. 

Suddenly she rose, and unlocking a drawer placed a little water- 
color portrait in his hand. It was the self-same sketch he had made 
of Eva during that first strange visit to the palace. While he ap- 
peared to examine it, Elizabeth hung over the picture weeping bit- 
terly. “We found this in her room,” she said. “ How sad, and 
yet how beautiful! 1 never saw my Eva look thus. When we 
parted she was bright as a star, and Stella all called her because she 
seemed to shine amid others. Oh, Eva, Eva! why were you born 
to be so unhappy?” 

Arthur felt conscious that he must seem unsympathetic, and Eliz- 
abeth hastened to apologize for him. 

“ You do uot love her!” she cried, passionately, “ or you would 
weep as 1 am doing now. But tell me what passed between you. 
The people here say that she was on her way to England, and had 
consulted with you as to finding means of livelihood there. Xs that 
so?” 

“ It is as you say. ” 

“ Were you kind and encouraging?” she asked, after a pause. 

A^in Arthur made sign of affirmation. 

“There must have been some new sorrow at the last. It could 
not have been because she heard that Flora and I had left the island 


110 


LOVE AXD MIRAGE* 


so hastily. For, do you know why we went away?’' she asked, with 
a sad smile. it seemed captious and unreasonable of* me then, 1 
know; but 1 may tell you now. 1 discovered that Eva was on this 
very island. Our father had made us promise solemnly never to 
see her.” She calmed herself now and went on again with a look 
of rebuke. ” But all this time 1 am talking to you as if you knew 
my poor Eva’s story, and you could not know it, of course, she 
would never tell you.” 

” She told me — ” broke in Arthur. 

Elizabeth looked up scrutinizingly, and with an expression of in- 
tense, almost fearful surprise. Arthur tried to extricate her as well 
as himself from the difficulty, 

” How could 1 help her unless I knew something?” he said, hop- 
ing to appear collected and matter-of-fact. ” She asked me to find 
her some kind of employment in England. 1 was bound to know 
her circumstances.” 

Elizabeth looked hopelessly perplexed and dejected. 

‘‘You say you were kind and encouraging,” she said, almost ap- 
pearing to shrink from Arthur, in a momentary apprehension, that 
made him hateful to her. ‘‘ Were you considerate, respectful?” she 
broke forth at last. ” Did you treat Eva as vou treat me?” 

How like the dead Eva was the living Elizabeth in her flashing 
scorn, her lightning-like look penetrating his very soul! The ^rl’s 
passion unmanned him. He saw himself driven into trusting Eliz- 
abeth as he had never intended to trust- any living soul. 

” Was 1 considerate, respectful! Did 1 tieat Eva as 1 treat you!” 
he cried. Then he got out the words, with bitter scorn, ” 1 asked 
her to be my wife.” 

Both were pale and silent now. Elizabeth's flush and Arthur’s 
angry frown had died away. They sat opposite each other, full of 
passionate thoughts, yet both unready of utterance. Elizabeth was 
the first to grow calm and kind. She could not in the least think of 
herself now, or of any slight, real or imaginary, Arthur had put 
upon her; her mind was wholly bent on Eva, and the secret, as she 
had feared, buried in Eva’s grave. 

” Why did you ask her to marry you?” she asked, very sadly and 
wonderingly. 

“You may well put that question to me,” Arthur answered, very 
bitterly; ” had 1 not put the same question to yourself a few weeks 
before? And what will you say when 1 speak of love?” he added, 
growing more and more ironic and self -condemnatory. ” But scorn 
me as you will, love it was that prompted me — first I pitied this 
beautiful Eva, then 1 loved her.” 

All Ihe time that Arthur’s mood was hardening under the intense 
humiliation of this confession, Elizabeth’s manner but grew softer 
and kinder, {She was passing through one of those crises that make 
even the most impulsive natures seem passionless. Elizabeth’s 
affection for her brilliant elder sister had been sheer idolatry. That. 
Arthur Venning should have willed to do this thing but drew her 
nearer to him ; she could overlook a lapse on the part of her lover 
that took the shape of magnanimity to Eva. 

Arthur, not reading the&e single-minded thoughts, continued his 
palinode. 


LOVE AKD MIKAGE. 


Ill 


“ Think meanly of me as yon will, but at least exonerate me from 
absolute disloyalty toward yourself. You had told me in the plain- 
est possible words that you could not think of marriage. When you 
spoke of outraged feeling and a forfeited word, 1 imagined you to 
be telling your own story; 1 supposed that you had already cared 
too much for another ever to care for me — ” 

“My friend, my brother,” Elizabeth broke in, with wonderful 
sweetness and calm, “ 1 am not thinking of myself, do not you think 
of me; let us talk of Eva. It would comfort me inexpressibly to be- 
lieve that some accident had brought about her death, but 1 cannot 
put away horrible misgivings that it was not so,” She looked up as 
if for comfort. What had he to give? He sat like a conscience- 
stricken man. Your offer of marriage should have inspired hope,” 
she went on; “ that is to say, if Eva was not too broken-hearted to 
look forward. Did she give you any answer?” 

Arthur’s answer was swift and startling. 

“We were to have been married on this island,” he said, averting 
his face. 

Elizabeth remained long buried in deep thought; then she said, 
forcing him into further disclosures, “ If so, then what could have 
happened to bring about this sudden change of fe*eling? There 
must have been a cause, and no trifling one, to drive her to despair. 
Oh! will you not let me know all?” she added, beseechingly, ready 
to go on her knees to him in the extremity of her suspense. “ No 
matter how cruel, how more than sad, only let me have the truth,” 
she pleaded. 

Arthur hesitated ; her passionate appeal was almost more than he 
could bear. There was something so like Eva in the candid, fair 
face upraised to his own— such a tone of Eva’s in the clear, girlish 
voice — that he was shaken to the very roots of his nature. He felt 
it impossible to answer, more than impossible to refuse. That mo- 
mentary conflict aged him. 

“ Elizabeth— m}’- sister Elizabeth,” he said, at last, “do you re- 
member something 1 said to you when we first knew each other? 
You asked me then if I were a brave man, and 1 made answer that 
courage and valor must be tried. 1 remember saying to you — how 
little 1 thought we should both soon be put to the proof — that 1 be- 
lieved a crisis came to us all when we need every vestige of heroism 
that is in us. Can you be brave now?” 

“Oh! Arthur, 1 am sure you have something terrible to break to 
me. My Eva! you did not abandon her at the last? no unkind 
word dropped from your lips? you were good to Her?” she cried, 
seizing Arthur’s hand and raising it to her lips. “ For if you were 
good to Eva, and it was ihrough no fault of yours she despaired at the 
last, 1 will adore you, Arthur; you shall be loved by me as never 
brother was loved by sister yet. But tell me, it was not you who 
sent Eva to her doom?” 

She was shaken by emotion now, and the sweet, calm, dignified 
manner was changed to impetuous, irresistible pathos. Arthur, 
hardly knowing what he did, wholly unmanned and pliant to her 
will, spoke out gently and tremblingly, “No, Elizabeth. My best 
friend, my sister! 1 am blameless. And do not weep too much for 
our lost Eva. She died nobly; it w’as to insure, as she thought, your 


112 


LOVE AND MILAGE. 


own happiness.” He spoke now with great tenderness and humil- 
ity. “ That night before 1 went away we were talking of my past 
life. She asked me playfully if 1 had ever loved before, -and I told 
lier of you. 1 said that I had never cared for any woman till 1 set 
foot on this island, and that a few weeks before 1 had asked a sweet 
girl named Elizabeth Flower to become my wife — that she had re' 
fused.” 

Light was breaking on Elizabeth’s mind now. Arthur felt her 
quick breath come and go, sure precursor of mental or bodily 
agony. She was kneeling by his side, looking up into his face, re- 
solved to have the truth if it killed her. “ How could I suppose,” 
he went on, ‘‘ that the story you told me was her own, and that but 
for Eva you would not have refused my love? I spoke of the ob- 
stacles you had hinted at — family misfortune, disgrace. I said that 
but for these I might have persuaded you to mairy me; and, God 
forgive me! I even let her think that you had begun to care for me 
— that we had begun to care for each other.” 

Elizabeth saw it all now. She was weeping as if her heart would 
break. There was no one to blame, but no one to give comfort. 

‘‘You woul4 have done as much tor her,” Arthur said, in a low 
voice. 

» “I knew all along how Eva loved me,” cried Elizabeth, at last; 
‘‘ but now she will never know how I loved her. I durst not even 
write. My father from the first would have it so. All were so hard 
upon my poor Eva, Arthur, Arthur!” she said, in tones startlingly 
artless and yet solemn. ‘‘Do you think there is life and memory 
beyond the grave? Shall I ever be able to make Eva understand 
there? I know that death ends the kind of existence familiar to us. 
It must be so; but will there be sympalhy, communication, between 
those who have loved, misjudged, wronged each other here? Will 
there be reparation, think you?— some kind of spiritual intercourse, 
some means of self -justification on the part of those who seem now 
to act blindly? It would comfort me if I could believe this. But 
do you believe it?” 

‘ ‘ W ithout aspiration there can be no belief, ’ ’ Arthur made answer. 
” Till now I have never sufiered enough to look beyond the present.” 

She looked at him with an expression of wholly new concern, 
mingled with some self-rebuke. She had all this time lost sight of 
his own sorrow. 

‘‘ Arthur,” she said, ‘‘ you do not weep. Your voice is hard, yet 
you loved Eva; you want comfort too!” 

‘‘There is time enough for weeping,” he said, with a dreary 
smile. Then he rose to go: but first he went toward her, and 
pressed a brother’s kiss on her pure, candid forehead. 

” Heaven bless you,” he said; ‘‘ Elizabeth, my sister Elizabeth!” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE END OF THE WAITING. 

Two days later Arthur Venning was once more waiting on his 
island alone. He had taken affectionate leave of Hervey and the sis- 
ters, but, for no reason that he cared to give, declared his intention 
of remaining behind yet a week or two. 


LOVE AKD MIEAGE. 113 

“Do not stay till the sea is frozen,” Hervey said, cheerily. The 
brothers’ misunderstanding had been righted with a word. 

Arthur ‘wore a semblance of cheerfulness too. “ Well,” lie re- 
torted, glancing at Flora, who had never looked prettier than in her 
black gowD, “ I should be all the nearer to Bremen in the spring; 
you say you will want my presence then.” 

“Yes, we must have yoif then,” Hervey replied, blithely. Flora 
had turned away her blushing face. Arthur added, “ You will fina 
me in London most likely, Hervey, if you do turn up there your' 
self this winter.” 

Arthur had something he w^anted to say to Elizabeth, but lacked 
courage. Did she guess why he lingered on the island? Had she a 
parting injunction to give about Eva’s grave? He dared not ask. 

All that passed between them Hervey and Flora could hear too — 
a word of friendly farewell, a promise on Elizabeth’s part to write, 
an admonition on Arthur’s that she should be careful of her health! 
Then the boat put off, and Arthur, to his inexpressible relief, found 
himself alone. 

It was his first sorrow. No wonder that even the sweet company 
of Elizabeth was unwelcome, almost unbearable to him. Only one 
thing he craved now, and that was solitude. Who, indeed is 
enough alone? Alike in our joys, sorrows, and common moods, 
the world is too much -with us. Arthur Venning’s longing for 
privacy and quiet indicated depths of feeling he was conscious of 
for the first time. He had not told Elizabeth the whole truth, for if 
he had hitherto not known what sorrow was, still less had he known 
of himself. He had never supposed that anything could make him 
sufler as he was suffering now. 

He went back, without losing time, to the little capital with its 
ancient minster, but found no more the same place. No golden 
dome now flashed above an amethystine hill, no corn-fields now lay 
bathed in amber light, no rose-gaidens sloped down to a silvery sea. 
About the somber tower hovered the gray sea-ravens, croaking 
hoarsely as they wheeled hither and thither. Summer had van- 
ished from the hanging pleasure-grounds; far and wide stretched 
the bare, brown fallow-land under a cheerless sky. All was sad and 
common. 

Arthur went straight to the quiet graveyard under the Dom, and 
sat down by the mound of freshly turned earth on which lay faded 
chaplets. Could he leave Eva in this dreary place? Could he find 
any comfort in the cheerful, busy life to which he was returning? 
Not a creature was stirring in this Old World God’s Acre where he 
now sat alone. Far away stretched the sea, many a rocky islet 
breaking the monotone of cold, metallic, silvery gray. Inland he 
saw sweeps of barren hill and dark forest, the fairy world of yes- 
treen, translated into gloom unutterable. 

Arthur recalled the charm and delicious freshness of his first few 
weeks in the island almost with wonder now. How enthusiastically 
he had entered into the spirit of this unique summer holiday! How 
young and nai've he had felt when exploring the island with Eliza- 
beth and Flora ! How he had reveled in the sweetness and beauty 
of the place! How easy it had been to fall in love, or fancy him- 
self falling in love, with Elizabeth. 


114 


LOVE AE'D 3IIRAGE. 


Then he thought of the feeling that had been love indeed, that 
had ied him to a desperate resolve. Was it so with all men as with 
him, or was he born with deeper feelings than he had ever given 
himself credit for? One thought comforted him inexpressibly, and 
it was that none but Elizabeth would ever share bis secret. He 
might mourn for Eva as much as he pleaj ed; he might appear super- 
ficial where the other sex was concerned— even cold, cynical, bitter 
— the world would never know why. He had something of the 
worldling and much of the Briton about him here; the desperate 
scot paid to feeling would be known to himself only. He rose at last, 
and rang the bell of a tiny postern leading into the pathedral clois- 
ters. The summons was answered by the sacristan’s daughter, one 
of those fail haired, blue-eyed, well-favored young women common 
to the island. These rustic beauties often spend their whole lives 
without crossing the narrow channel, shutting them od: from the 
continent, and yet, with the most entire freedom from coquetry or 
self-consciousness, possess easy, gentle manners, acquired one 
knows not how. 

“ I have something to say to you; do me the favor to come out, 
Fraiilein,” he said, raising his hat and addressing her with the foiraal 
politeness now exacted from the humblest ranks in Germany. 
“You see this grave?” he said, pointing to the mound raised two 
days ago. 

“ Yes, I see it,” said the girl. 

He took out two gold pieces and put them into her hand. 

“ Now,” he said, ” I want you to keep this special grave covered 
with fresh flowers from to-day till next July. Will you undertake 
the task? Here is your payment.” 

The girl had colored with astonishment and pleasure at sight of 
the ^lerdop — a royal one in her simple eyes. 

‘‘Dear God in heaven!” she cried, ‘‘ is the gentleman dreaming? 
In a month more not a grave will be seen any more than the dead 
who lie in it. There will be several feet of snow, sure as we stand 
here, till April. ” 

“ True,” Arthur said, “ I had not thought of the snow; but till it 
comes, and when it goes, will you remember the flowers?” 

‘‘Oh, yes!” she answered, eagerly. ‘‘And I can procure roses 
and such like; my brother is under-gardener at the palace.” 

‘‘ No hot-house blossoms, understand that,” Arthur put in, quick- 
ly. ‘‘ Only the posies you find in your own garden, or in the woods 
and fields.” He glanced at the little plot just outside the postern, 
and added, “ I see rosemary here, and pansies in blow, and a last 
white rose or two; then in the brook by yonder garth are forget-me- 
nots in plenty, and in the spring the woods will be white with lilies- 
of-lhe-valley — Mai-Blumen you call them; these aie the flowers for 
graves.” 

“ I understand,” said the girl, and stooping down she culled the 
choicest offerings she had to give. ‘‘ Take these now, and I will see 
that the gentleman’s wishes are carried out; I will not forget.” 

Arthur glanced at her before saying farewell. ‘‘ Such charges are 
sacred,” he said. She had a sweet face, but a careless one. He did 
not feel sure of her memory. “Promise.” She crimsoned; tears 


• , 10 VE AKD^ MIRAGE. 115 

came into her eyes. Then she held out her rough little hand, and 
falteringly gave the word. 

He went' back to the lonely grave uncomtorted. He had gratified 
a foolish, sentimental whim, he reflected, but it it brought him no 
solace, at least Eliza,beth would be made happier — he had done it 
partly for her sake. 

Yet as he lingered thus, he said that Elizabeth would never be 
anything but a sister to him. His love, all that was best in him, lay 
buried here. He thought and believed that he should visit this 
lonely grave every summer as long as he lived. He said to himself 
that when once he had recovered from the shock, he should have an 
unruffled, even existence to the end of his days; love, much less 
passion, should never trouble him any more. 

To this his mind was fully made up, yet with the discomforting 
half-consciousness that perhaps it could not be so. He might appear 
to forget Eva against his will — was he not here made aware of a 
truth on which rests the very stability of human society, the capac- 
ity for hope within the human breast? The divine order of things 
has so willed it; were it otherwise the world would be one vast tomb, 
and life an unbroken threnody. But alike in the spirit as in the 
flesh, we must abide with the living and not the dead. 

Having bidden Eva farewell there was nothing to keep Arthur 
Venning any longer on his northern island. His coming and wait- 
ing were not in vain. He had found Love and Mirage, and thus 
seen fulfilled the dearest wishes of his heart. V iser, ceries, he was 
for the supreme experience of life, but happier? ’Tis a question 
each heart must answer for itself, other oracles are dumb, 


THE END. 


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MRS. ALEXANDER’S WORKS. 

30 Her Dearest Foe 20 

86 The Wooing O’t 20 

46 The Heritage of Langdale 20 

370 Ralph Wilton’s Weir-d 1C 

400 Which Shall it Be? 20 

632 Maid, Wife, or Widow?.. 10 

1231, The Freres 20 

1259 Valerie’s Fate 10 

1391 Look Before You Leap 20 

1502 The Australian Aunt 10 

1595 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

WILLIAM BLACK’S WORKS. 

13 A Princess of Thule 20 

28 A Daughter of Heth 10 

47 In Silk Attire 10 

48 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton 10 

61 Kilmeny 10 

63 The Monarch of Mincing Lane 10 

79 Madcap Violet (small type) 10 

604 Madcap Violet Oarge type), 20 

342 The Three Feathers 16 

890 The Marriage of Moira Fergus, and The Maid of Killcena. 10 

, 417 Macleod of Dare 20 

'461 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart 10 

668 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 10 

816 White Wings: A Yachting Romance 10 

826 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

950 Sunrise: A Story of These Times 20 

i025 The Pupil of Aurelius 10 

1032 That Beautiful Wretch 10 

llOl The Four MacNicols 10 

1264 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in the Highlands 10 

1429 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Young People. .... 10 

1666 Shandon Bells 20 

Yoknde ^ 


THB SEASIDE LIBBAnT.—Qi'dina/ry EMim, fit 


MARY CECIL HAY’S WORKS— Continued, 

27 Victor and Vanquished 2® 

29 Nora’s Love Test. 1® 

421 Nora’s Love Test (in large type) 20 

275 A Shadow on the Threshold 10 

863 Reaping the Whirlwind 10 

384 Back to the Old Home 10 

415 A Dark Inheritance ,10 

440 The Sorrow of a Secret, and Lady Carmichael’s Will 10 

686 Brenda Yorke 10 

724 For Her Dear Sake 20 

852 Missing 10 

855 Dolf ’s Big Brother. 10 

930 In the Holidays, and The Name Cut on a Gate 10 

935 Under Life’s Key, and Other Stories 20 

972 Into the Shade, and Other Stories 20 

1011 My First Offer 10 

i014 Told in New England, and Other Tales 10 

1016 At the Seaside; or, A Sister’s Sacrifice 10 

1220 Dorothy’s Venture 20 

1221 Among the Ruins, and Other Stories 10 

1431 “A Little Aversion” .* 10 

1549 Bid Me Discourse c 10 


THOMAS HUGHES’ WORKS. 

492 Tom Brown’s Schooldays at Rugby, 20 

598 The Manliness of Christ 10 

640 Tom Brown at Oxford 20 

1041 Rugby — Tennessee 10 


CHARLES LEVER’S WORKS. 

98 Harry Lorrequer 20 

132 Jack Hinton, the Guardsman ^ 

187 A Rent in a Cloud 10 

146 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dragoon (Triple Number) 30 

152 Arthur O’Leary 20 

168 Con Cregan 20 

169 St. Patrick’s Eve 10 

174 Kate O’Donoghue 20 

257 That Boy of Norcott’s 10 

296 Tom Burke of Ours. First half 20 

296 Tom Burke of Ours. Second half. ^ 

819 Davenport Dunn. First half 20 

819 Davenport Dunn. Second half 20 

464 Gerald Fitzgerald 20 

470 The Fortunes of Glencore 20 

629 Lord Kilgobbin. 20 

646 Maurice Tiernay 80 

466 A Day’s Ride .....83 


X THE SEASIDE LIBRAhT. — Ordino/ry EdUim. 


CHARLES LEVER’S WORKS.— Continued. 

609 Barrington 

333 Sir Jasper Carew, Knight g6 

657 The Martins of Cro’ Martin. Part 1 30 

657 The Marthas of Cro’ Martin. Part II 30 

822 Tony Butler 36 

872 Luttrell of Arran. Part I 20 

872 Luttrell of Arran. Part II 20. 

951 Paul Gosslett’s Confessions 10 

965 One of Them. First half. 20 

965 One of Them. Second half 20 

989 Sir Brook Fossbrooke. Parti 20 

989 Sir Brook Fossbrooke. Part II 20 

1235 The Bramleighs of Bishop’s Folly 20 

1309 The Dodd Family Abroad. First half 20 

1309 The Dodd Family Abroad. Second half 20 

1342 Horace Templeton 20 

1394 Roland Cashel. First half 20 

1394 Roland Cashel. Second half 20 

1496 The Daltcns; or. Three Roads in Life. First half 20 

1496 The Daltons; or. Three Roads in Life. Second half ^ 

SAMUEL LOVER’S WORKS. 

33 Handy Andy 3ti 

66 Rory O’More ^ 

123 Irish Legends 10 

158 He Would be a Gentleman 20 

293 Tom Crosbie * 10 


SIR BULWER LYTTON’S WORKS. 

6 The Last Days of Pompeii 20 

587 Zanoni 20 

689 Pilgrims of the Rhine 10 

714 Leila; or. The Siege of Grenada 10 

781 Rienzi, The Last of the Tribunes 20 

955 Eugene Aram 20 

979 Ernest Maltravers 20 

1001 Alice; or. The Mysteries 20 

1064 The Caxtons 20 

1089 My Novel. First half 20 

1089 My Novel Second half 20 

1205 Kenelm Chillingly: His Adventures and Opinions 20 

1316 Pelham; or, The Adventures of a Gentleman 20 

1454 The Last of the Barous. First half 20 

1454 The Last of the Barons. Second half 20 

1529 A Strange Story 20 

1690 What Will He Dor With It? First half 20 

i690 What Will He Do With It? Second . 2i 


THE SEASIDE LIBRABT.— Ordinary Edition. 


T. B. MACAULAY’S WORKS. 

926 The Leys of Ancient Rome, and Other Poems, 

976 History of England. Part I 

976 History of England. Part II 

976 History of England. Part III 

976 History of England. Part IV 

976 History of England. Part V 

976 History of England. Part VI 

976 History of England. Part VII 

976 History of England. Part VIII 

976 History of England. Part IX 

976 History of England. Part X 


GEORGE MACDONALD’S WORKS. 

455 Paul Faber, Surgeon. 

491 Sir Gibbie 

595 The Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood 

606 The Seaboard Parish 

627 Thomas Wingfold, Curate. 

643 The Vicar’s Daughter 

668 David Elginbrod 

677 St. George and St. Michael ' 

790 Alec Forbes of Howglen 

887 Malcolm 

922 Mary Marston 

938 Guild Court. A London Story 

948 The Marquis of Lossie 

962 Robert Falconer 

1375 Castle Warlock; A Homely Romance 

1439 Adela Cathcart 

1466 The Gifts of the Child Christ, and Other Tales. . 

1488 The Princess and Curdle. A Girl’s Story 

1498 Weighed and Wanting 


E. MARLITT’S WORKS. 

453 The Princess of the Moor 

622 The Countess Giseia 

636 In the Schillingscourt 

866 The Second Wife i 

878 In the Counselor’s House. 

1055 The Bailiff’s Maid ] 

1210 Old Mamselle’s Secret 


CAPTAIN MABKTAT’S WORKS. 

108 The Sea King 

122 The Privateersman *.*...'!*..*.*!!!*!**.*.*.!! 

141 Masterman Ready ....*..*!!*.*!** * * 

147 Rattlin, the Reefer. *[*]*.] ] 

160 Mr. Midshipman ICasv. ' 

R66 The King’s O'??* , *. *. *.! 1 * * * * 




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atti TSE seaside LIBB ART.— Ordinary Edition. 


CAPTAIN MARRYAT’S WORKS.- Continued. 

159 The Phantom Ship 10 

163 Frank Mildmay 10 

170 Newton Forster 10 

173 Japhet in Search of a Father 30 

175 The Pacha of Many Tales 10 

176 Percival Keene 10 

185 The Little Savage 10 

193 The Three Cutters 10 

199 Settlers in Canada, : 10 

207 The Children of the New Forest 10 

266 Jacob Faithful 10 

‘273 Snarleyyow, the Dog Fiend 10 

382 Poor Jack 10 

340 Peter Simple 30 

898 The Mission ; or, Scenes in Africa 30 

1070 The Poacher 30 

1116 Valerie 20 

FLORENCE MARRYAT’S WORKS. 

110 The Girls of Feversham 10 

119 Petronel 20 

197 “ No Intentions ” 30 

206 The Poison of Asps 10 

219 “ My Own Child ” 10 

305 Her Lord and Master 10 

323 A Lucky Disappointment 10 

426 Written in Fire 20 

533 Ange 20 

635 A Harvest of Wild Oats 20 

703 The Root of All Evil 20 

743 A Star and a Heart 10 

784 Out of His Reckoning 10 

820 The Fair-Haired Alda 20 

897 Love’s Conflict 30 

i038 With Cupid’s Eyes 20 

|067 A Little Stepson 10 

1086 My Sister the Actress 20 

1349 Phyllida. A Life Drama 20 

1654 Facing the Footlights 20 

i MISS MULOCK S WORKS. 

2 John Halifax, Gentleman 10 

456 John Halifax, Gentleman (large type) 20 

77 Mistress and Maid 10 

81 Christian’s Mistake 10 

82 My Mother and 1 10 

88 The Two Marriages 10 

91 The Woman’s Kingdom 20 

101 A Noble Life 10 

^208 A Brave Lady.. 90 


THE SEASIDE HBHAR Y. — Ordinary Edition. xm 


MISS MULOCK’S WORKS— Continued. 

m A Life for a Life 20 

130 Sermons Out of Church 10 

135 Agatha’s Husband 20 

142 The Head of the Family 20 

227 Hannah 10 

240 The Laurel Bush 10 

291 Olive 20 

294 The Ogilvies 20 

314 Nothing New 10 

320 AHero 10 

330 A Low Marriage 10 

457 The Last of the Rnthvens. and The Self-Seer 10 

480 Avillion ; or, The Happy Isles 10 

626 Young Mrs. Jardine 10 

628 Motherless (Translated by Miss Mulock) 10 

752 The Italian’s Daughter 10 

773 The Two Homes 10 

804 A Bride’s Tragedy 10 

824 A Legacy 20 

850 The Half-Caste 10 

886 Miss Letty’s Experiences 10 

945 Studies from Life 10 

964 His Little Mother, and Other Tales 10 

978 A Woman’s Thoughts About AYomen 10 

1029 Twenty Years Ago, A Book for Girls. (Edited by Miss 

Mulock) 10 

1177 An Only Sister, Madame Guizot de Witt. (Edited by Miss 

Mulock) 10 

1261 Plain-Speaking 10 


MRS. OLIPHANT’S WORKS. 

136 Katie Stewart ' ^ 10 

210 Young Musgrave 20 

391 The Primrose Path 20 

452 An Odd Couple 10 

475 Heart and Cross 10 

488 A Beleaguered City 10 

497 For Love and Life 20 

511 Squire Arden 20 

542 The Story of Valentine and His Brother 20 

696 Caleb Field 10 

651 Madonna Mary 20 

665 The Fugitives 10 

680 The Greatest Heiress in England 26 

706 Earthbound 10 

775 The Queen (Illustrated) 10 

786 Orphans 10 

802 Phoebe, Junior. A Last Chronicle of Carlingford 20 

876 No. 8 Grove Road 


XIV THE SEASIDE LIBBABY.^ Ordinary Edition, 


MRS. OLIPHANT’S WORKS.-Continued. 

881 He That Will Not When He May 2C 

919 May 20 

959 Miss Marjoribanks. Part I 20 

959 Miss Marjoribanks. Part II 20 

1004 Harry Joscelyn 20 

1017 Carita 20 

1049 In Trust 20 

1215 Brownlows 20 

1319 Lady Jane 10 

^ 1396 Whiteladies 20 

1407 A Rose in June 10 

1449 A Little Pilgrim 10 

1547 It Was a Lover and His Lass 20 

1602 Salem Chapel 20 

1669 The Minister’s Wife. First half 20 

1669 The Minister’s Wife. Second half 20 


“OUIDA’S” WORKS. 

49 Granville de Vigne; or, Held in Bondage 20 

54 Under Two Flags ... 20 ' 

55 In a Winter City 10 

56 Strathmore 20 

59 Chandos 20 

61 Bebee; or, Two Little Wooden Shoes 10 

62 Folle Farine 20 

71 Ariadne — The Story of a Dream 20 

181 Beatrice Boville 10 

211 Randolph Gordon 10 

230 Little Grand and the Marchioness 10 

^1 Tricotrin 20 

249 Cecil Castlemaine’s Gage 10 

279 A Leaf in the Storm, and Other Tales 10 

281 Lady Marabout’s Troubles 10 

834 Puck 20 

377 Friendship 20 

379 Pascarel 20 

886 Signa 20 

889 Idalia 20 

. 563 A Hero’s Reward 10 

■ 676 Umilta 10 

699 Moths 20 

791 Pipistrello 10 

864 Findelkind 10 

915 A Village Commune 20 

1025 The Little Earl 10 

1247 In Maremma 20 

1334 Bimbi 10 

1586 Frescoes 10 

1626 Wanda, Countess von Szalras .-. 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBHABY. ^Ordinary Edition. xv 


JAMES PAYN’S WORKS.. 

138 What He Cost Her 10 

299 By Proxy 20 

345 Halves 10 

358 Less Black Than We’re Painted 20 

369 Found Dead 10 

382 Gwendoline’s Harvest 20 

401 A Beggar on Horseback 10 

406 One of the Family 20 

485 At Her Mercy 20 

'j502 Under One Roof (Illustrated). 20 

602 Lost Sir Massingberd 10 

646 Married Beneath Him 20 

687 Fallen Fortunes 20 

892 A Confidential Agent 20 

981 From Exile 20 

1045 The Clyffards of Clyffe 20 

1149 A Grape from a Thorn 20 

1193 High Spirits 10 

1267 For Cash Only 20 

1516 Kit: A Memory 20 

1524 Carlyon’s Year 10 

1652 A Woman’s Vengeance : 20 

CHARLES READE’S WORKS. 

4 A Woman-Hater 20 

19 A Terrible Temptation 19 

21 Foul Play 20 

24 “It is Never Too Late to Mend ” 20 

31 Love Me Little, Love Me Long 20 

34 A Simpleton 10 

41 White Lies 20 

78 Griffith Gaunt 20 

86 Put Yourself in His Place 20 

112 Very Ehird Cash 20 

203 The Cloister and the Hearth 20 

237 The Wandering Heir 10 

246 Peg Woflington 10 

270 The JiU 10 

371 Christie Johnstone 10 

536 Jack of all Trades 10 

1204 Clouds and Sunshine 10 

1322 The Knightsbridge Mystery 10 

1390 Singleheart and Doubleface. A Matter-of -Fact Romance. . 10 

W. CLARK RUSSELL’S WORKS. 

848 A Sailor’s Sweetheart 20 

1034 An Ocean Free Lance 20 

1339 The Wreck of the “ Grosvenor ” 20 

1378 My Watch Below; or, Yarns Spun When Off Duty 20 

1381 A^d Lang Syne 10 

1467 The “ Lady Maud Schooner Yacht 20 

1663 A Sea Queen. 


CVI THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.—Ordinary Edition. 


SIR WALTER SCOTT’S WORKS. 

89 Ivauhoe 20 

183 Kenilworth 20 

196 Heart of Mid-Lothiai>. * 20 

593 The Talisman 20 

723 Guy Mannering 20 

857 Waverley 20 

920 Rob Roy: 20 

1007 Quentin Durward 20 

1082 Count Robert of Paris 20 

1276 Old Mortality 20 

1328 The Antiquary 20 

1399 Tbe Pirate 20 

1462 The Betrothed : A Tale of the Crusaders, and The Chroni- 
cles ©f the Canongate 20 

1698 Redgauntlet. A Tale of the Eighteenth Cootury 20 

1701 The Monastery 20 

1702 The Abbot (Sequel to The Monastery ”) 20 

EUGENE SUE’S WORKS. 

129 The Wandering Jew. First half 20 

129 The Wandering Jew. Second half 20 

205 The Mysteries of Paris, First half 20 

205 The Mysteries of Paris. Second half : . 20 

800 He Rohan ; or, The Court Conspirator 20 

885 Arthur 20 

t030 The Commander of Malta 20 

1540 Martin the Foundling; or. The Adventures of a Valet de 

Chambre. Tol. 1 20 

1540 Martin the Foundling; or. The Adventures of a* Valet de 

Chambre. Vol. II 20 

1540 Martin the Foundling; or. The Adventures of a Valet de 

Chambre. Vol. Ill 20 

1590 Pride; or. The Duchess. First half 20 

1590 Pride; or. The Duchess. Second^h^ 20 

WM. M. THACKERAY’S WORKS. 

559 Vanity Fair 20 

570 Lovel, the Widower 10 

580 Denis Duval 10 

582 Henry Esmond 20 

613 The Newcomes. Part I 20 

613 The Newcomes. Part II 20 

624 The Great Hoggarty Diamond 10 

638 Pend ennis. Parti 20 

638 Pendennis. Pai t II 20 

648 The Virginians. Part I 20 

648 The Virginians. Part II 20 

669 Adventures of Philip. Parti. 20 

669 Adventures of Philip. Part II 20 

961 Barry Lyndon 10 

1597 Catherine: A Story. By Ikey Solomons, Esq., Junior., If 


TEB SEASIDE LIE BART.— Ordinary Edition, 


xrvn 


ANTHONY TROLLOPE’S WORKS. 

12 The American Senator 20 

899 The Lady of Launay 10 

580 Sir Harry Hotspur of Humblethwalte 20 

681 John Caldigate , 10 

601 Cousin Heurv 10 

768 The Duke’s Children 20 

870 An Eye for an Eye 10 

910 Dr. Wortle’s School 10 

944 Miss Mackenzie 20 

1047 Ayala’s Angel 20 

1090 Barchester Towers 20 

1201 PhineasFinn. First half 20 

1201 Phineas Finn. Second half 20 

1206 Doctor Thorne. First half 20 

1206 Doctor Thorne. Second half 20 

1217 Lady Anna 20 

1255 The Fixed Period 10 

1283 Why Frau Frohmann Raised Her Prices, and Other Stories 10 

1292 Marion Fay 20 

1306 The Struggles of Brown, Jones & Robinson 20 

1318 Orley Farm. First half 20 

1318 Orley Farm. Second half 20 

1348 The Belton Estate 20 

1419 Kept in the Dark 10 

1436 The Kellys and The O Kellys 20 

1450 The Two Heroines of Plumplington 10 

1455 The Maedermots of Ballycloran 20 

1473 Castle Richmond 20 

1486 Phineas Redux. First half 20 

1486 Phineas Redux. Second half 20 

1494 The 'Vicar of Bullhampton 20 

1511 Not If I Know It 10 

1551 Is He Popen joy ?. . . . 20 

1559 The Small House at Allington. First half 20 

1559 The Small House at Allington. Second half 20 

1567 The Last Chronicle of Barset. First half 20 

1567 The Last Chronicle of Barset. Second half... 20 

1634 The Way We Live Now. First half 20 

1634 The Way We Live Now. Second half 20 ' 

1656 Mr. Scarborough’s Family , . . 10 

JULES YERNE’S WORKS. 

5 The Black-Indies •'0 

16 The English at the North Pole ±0 

48 Hector Servadac 10 

67 The Castaways; or, A Voyage Round the World— South 

America 10 

60 The Castaways; or, A Voyage Round the Woild— Australia 10 
84 The Castaways; or, A Voyage Round the World— New 

Zealand lo 


rsrm THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Ordinary Edition. 


JULES VERNE’S WORKS.-Continued. 

68 Five Weeks in a Balloon 16 

72 Meridiana, and The Blockade Runners 10 

75 The Fur Country. Part I 10 

76 The Fur Country. Part II 10 

84 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas 10 

87 A Journey to the Centre of the Earth 10 

90 The Mysterious Island — Dropped from the Clouds 10 

93 The Mysterious Island — The Abandoned 10 

97 The Mysterious Island — The Secret of the Island 10 

99 From the Earth to the Moon . . 10 

111 A Tour of the World in Eighty Days 10 

131 Michael Strogoff 10 

1.092 Michael Strogoff (large type, illustrated edition) 20 

414 Dick Sand; or, Captain at Fifteen. Part 1 10 

414 Dick Sand; or. Captain at Fifteen. Part II 10 

466 Great Voyages and Great Navigators. Part 1 10 

466 Great Voyages and Great Navigators. Part II 10 

466 Great Voyages and Great Navigators. Part III 20 

505 The Field of Ice (Illustrated) 10 

510 The Pearl of Lima ■ 10 

520 Round the Moon (Illustrated) 10 

634 The 500 Millions of the Begum 10 

647 Tribulations of a Chinaman 10 

673 Dr. Ox’s Experiment 10 

710 Survivors of the Chancellor 10 

818 The Steam-House; or, A Trip Across Northern India. 

Part 1 10 

818 The Steam-House; or, A Trip Across Northern India. 

Part II 10 

1043 The Jangada; or. Eight Hundred Leagues over the 

Amazon. Part 1 10 

1043 The Jangada; or. Eight Hundred Leagues over the 

Amazon. Part II 10 

1619 Robinsons’ School 10 

1677 The Headstrong Turk. First half 10 

• MRS. HENRY WOOD’S WORKS. 

1 East Lynne 10 

881 East Lynne (in large type) 20 

25 Lady Adelaide’s Oath 20 

37 The'Mystery 10 

1125 The Mystery (large type edition) 20 

40 The Heir to Ashley ’ 10 

45 A Life’s Secret 10 

52 The Lost Bank Note 10 

63 Dene Hollow 20 

65 The Nobleman’s Wife 10 

67 Castle Wafer, and Henry Arkell 10 

78 Bessy Rane 20 

74 Rupert Hall 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Ordinary Edition. M 


MRS. HENRY WOOD’S WORKS.-Continued. 

83 Verner’s Pride. 20 

92 Mrs. Halliburton’s Troubles 20 

106 The Master of Greylands 20 

115 Within the Maze 20 

124 Squire Trevlyn’s Heir 20 

143 The Haunted Tower 10 

220 George Canterbury’s Will 1 20 

256 Lord^Oakburn’s Daughters 20 

288 The Channings > 20 

310 Roland Yorke 20 

328 The Shadow of Ashlydyat 20 

349 Sister’s Folly 20 

857 Red Court Farm 20 

365 Oswald Cray 20 

373 St. Martin’s Ev« 20 

443 Pomeroy Abbey 20 

467 Edina...., 20 

508 Orville College 20 

914 Johnny Ludlow. Parti 20 

914 Johnny Ludlow. Part II 20 

;054 A Tale of Sin 10 

1076 Anne; or, The Doctor’s Daughter 10 

1094 Rose Lodge 10 

1117 Lost in the Post, and Other Tales 10 

#.128 Robert Ashton’s Wedding Day, and Other Tales 10 

*166 Court Netherleigh 20 

For sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, post- 
age free, on receipt of 12 cents for single numbers, and 25 cents for 
Jouble numbers, by the publisher. Partite ordering by mail will 
please order by numbers. 

GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 

P.O.Box 3751* 17to;i7 Van dewater Street, New YorE. 


I 

I 


1 


MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY -POCKET EDITION. 


ICONTINUED PROM SECOND PAGE OP COVER.] 


NO. PRICE. 

113 Mrs. Carr's Companion. By M. Wight- 

wick 10 

114 Some of Our Girls. By Mrs. Eiloart . 20 

115 Diamond Cut Diamond. By T. Adol- 

phus Trollope 10 

116 Moths. By “ Ouida ” 20 

117 A Tale of the Shore and Ocean. By 

W. H. Q. Kingston. 20 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford, and Eric Der- 

ing. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

119 Monica and A Rose Distill’d. By 

“ The Duchess " 10 

120 Tom Brown’s School Days at Rugby. 

By Thomas Hughes 2’> 

121 Maid of Athens. By Justin McCarthy 20 

122 lone Stewart. By Mrs. E. Lynn Linton 20 

123 Sweet is True Love. “ The Duchess”. 10 

124 Three Feathers. By William Black. 20 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane. By 

William Black 20 

126 Kilmeny. By William Black 20 

127 Adrian Bright. By Mrs. Caddy 20 

128 Afternoon, and Other Sketches. By 

“Ouida” 10 

129 Rossmoyne. By “ The Duchess ”. . . . 10 

130 The Last of the Barons. By Sir E. 

Bnlwer Lytton 40 

131 Our Mutual Friend. Charles Dickens 40 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

133 Peter the Whaler. W. H. G. Kingston 10 

134 The Witching Hour. “The Duchess” 10 

135 A Great Heiress. By R. E. Francillou 10 

136 “ That Last Rehearsal.” By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

137 Uncle Jack. By Walter Besant 10 

133 Green Pastures and Piccadilly. By 

William Black 20 

The Romantic Adventures of a Milk- 
maid. Bv Thomas Hardy 10 

A Glorious Fortune. Walter Besant. , 10 
She Loved Him ! By Annie Thomas, 10 
14? Jenifer. By Annie Thomas 20 

143 One False, Both Fair. J. B. Harwood 20 

144 Promises of Marriage. By Gaboriau 10 

145 God and The Man. Robert Buchanan 20 

146 Love Finds the Wav. By Walter Be- 

sant and James Rice 

147 Rachel Ray. By Anthony Trollope. . 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. By 

the Author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 

149 The Captain’s Daughter. From the 

Russian of Pushkin 10 

150 For Himself Alone. By T. W. Speight 10 
1.51 The Ducie Diamonds. C. Blatherwick 10 

152 The Uncommercial Traveler. By 

Charles Dickens 20 

153 The Golden Calf. Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

154 Annan Water. By Robert Buchanan. 20 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret. By Jean Mid- 

dlemass 20 

156 “ For a Dream’s Sake.” By Mrs. Her- 

bert Martin 20 

1.57 Milly’s Hero. By P. W. Robinson — 20 
158 The Starling. Norman Macleod. D.D. 10 


139 

140 

141 


10 

20 

10 


NO. PRICE. 

159 A Moment of Madness, and Other 

Stories. By Florence Marryat 10 

160 Her Gentle Deeds. By Sarah Ty tier. 10 

161 The Lady of Lyons. Founded on the 

Play of that Title by Lord Lytton. 10 

162 Eugene Aram. Sir E.'Bulwer Lytton 20 

163 Winifred Power. By Jm'ce Darrell.. 20 

164 Leila; or. The Siege of Grenada. By 

Sir E. Bulwer T.ytton 10 

165 The History of H^nry Esmond. By 

William Makepeace Thackeray. . , 20 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites. By “ The 

Duchess ” 10 

Heart and Science. By Wilkie Collins 20 
No Thoroughfare. By Charles Dick- 
ens and Wilkie Collins 10 

The Haunted Man. Charles Dickens. 10 
A Great Treason. By Mary Hoppus. 30 
Fortune’s Wheel, and Other Stories. 

By “ The Duchess ” i 10 

“ Golden Girls.” By Alan Muir 20 

The Foreigners. By Eleanor C. Price 20 

Under a Ban. By Mrs. Lodge 20 

Love’s Random Shot, and Other Sto - 
ries. By Wilkie Collins 10 

An April Day. By Philippa P. Jeph- 

son 10 

Salem Chapel. By Mrs. Oliphant . . . 20 
More Leaves from the Journal of a 
Life in the Highlands. By Queen 

Victoria 10 

Little Make-Believe. B. L. Farjeon . . 10 
Round the Galley Fire. By W. Clark 

Russell 10 

The New Abelard. Robert Buchanan 10 

182 The Millionaire. A Novel 20 

183 Old Contrairy. and Other Stories. By 

Florence Marryat 10 

184 Thirlby Hall. By W. E. Norris. ... . 20 

185 Dita. By Lady Margaret Majendie. , 10 

186 The Canon’s Ward. By James Payn, 

187 The Midnight Sun. Fredrika Bremer 

188 Idonea. By Anne Beale 

189 Valerie’s Fate. By Mrs. Alexander. . 

190 Romance of a Black Veil. By the AlU- 

thor of “ Dora Thorne 

191 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles Lever. 

192 At the World’s Mercy. By F. Warden 10 

193 The Rosery Folk. By G. Manville 

Fenn 10 

“ So Near and Yet So Far 1” Alison.. 10 
“ The Way of the World.” By David 

Christie Murray 15 

Hidden Perils. By Mary Cecil Hay . 10 

197 For Her Dear Sake. Mary Cecil Hay 20 

198 A Husband’s Story 10 

199 The Fisher Village. By Anne Beale.. 10 

200 An Old Man’s Love. Anthony Trollope 10 

201 The Monastery. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

202 The Abbot. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

203 John Bull and His Island. MaxO’Rell 10 

204 Vixen. By Miss M. E. Braddon 15 

205 The Minister’s Wife. By Mrs. Oliphant 80 

206 The Picture, and Jack of All Trades. 

By Charles Reade lo 


167 

163 

169 

170 

171 

172 

173 

174 

175 

176 

177 

178 


179 

180 

181 


20 

10 

20 

5 

10 

15 


194 

195 

196 


[this list is continued on fourth page OP COVER.] 


( 



MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


The Seaside Library. 


[COKTINUED FROM THIRD PAGE OF COVER. | 


5515 Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa Nou- 

In 

21C Foul Play. By' Cliaries Reade a'nd 

Dion Boiicicault 15 

217 The Man She Cared For. By F. W. 

Robinson 15 

218 Agnes Sorel. By G. P. R. James — 15 

219 Lady Clare; or. The Master of the 

ITorges. By Georges Ohnet. 10 

220 Which Loved Him Best? By Bertha 

M. Clay, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

221 Comi!!’ Thro’ the Rj^e. By Helen B. 

222 The Sun-Ma'id. ' By Miss Grant. .’!!.! 15 

223 A Sailor’s Sweetheart. By W, Clark 

Russell 15 

224 The Arundel IMotto. Mary Cecil Hay 15 

225 The Giant’s Robe. By F. Austey 15 

.226 Friendship. By “ Ouida ” 20 

227 Nancy. By Rhoda Broughton 15 

228 Princess Napraxine. By “Ouida”.. 20 

229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? By Mrs. 

Alexander..., 10 

230 Dorothy Forster. By Walter Besauc. 15 

231 Griffith Gaunt. By Charles Reade. . 15 

232 Love and Money; or, A Perilous Se- 

cret. By Charles Reade. . lO 

233 “I Say No;” or, the Love-Letter An- 

swered. Wilkie Collins. ......... . 15 

234 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery. Miss 


235 “It is Never Too Late to Mend.” 

A Matter-of-Fact Romance. By 
Charles Reade 20 

236 Which Shall It Be? By Mrs. Alex- 

ander .* 20 

237 Repented at Leisure. By Bertha M. 

Clay, Author of “ Dora Thorne 15 

238 Pascafel. By “ Ouida ” 20 

2.39 Signa. By “ Ouida ” ... 20 

240 Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 

241 The Baby’s Grandmother. By L. B. 

Walfdrd 10 

242 The Two Orphans. By D’Ennery 10 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” First half. 

By Charles Lever 20 

243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” Second half. 

By Charles Lever 20 

244 A Great Mistake. By the author of 

“ His Wedded Wife ” 20 

245 Miss Tommy. By Miss Mulock 10 


246 A Fatal Dower. By the author of 

“ His Wedded Wife ”.. 10 

247 The Armourer’s Prentices. By Char- 

lotte M. Yonge. . . 10 

248 The House ou the Marsh. F. Warden 10 

249 “ Prince Charlie's Daughter.” By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ”. 10 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Diana’s 

Discipline. By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne”... . .10 

251 The Daughter of the Stars, and other 

tales. By Hugh Conwaj’^ 10 

252 A Sinless Secret. By “Rita” 10 

2.53 The Amazon By Carl Vosmaer . 10 

254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair but False. 

B.y the Author of “ Dora Tiiorne ” 10 

255 The Mystery. By Mrs. Henry Wood.. 15 

256 Mr. Smith; A Part of His Life. B\' 

L. B. Walford . . 15 

257 Be.yond Recall. By Adeline Sergeant 10 

2.58 Cousins. By L. B. Walford.. 20 

259 The Bride of Monte-Cristo. A Sequel 

to “ The Count of Monte-Cristo,” 

By Alexander Dumas 10 

260 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker . , 10 

261 A Fair Maid. B.y F. W. Robinson 20 I 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. I’arfl. | 

B.y Alexander Dumas 20 i 

262 The Count of Monte Cristo. Part 11. 

B.y Alexander Dumas 20 

263 Anishmaelite. Bj’MissM. E. Braddon 15 

264 Pi6douche, A French Detective. By 

Fortune Du Boisgobey 10 

265 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love Af- 

fairs and Other Adventures. B3' 
William Black ... 15 

266 The Water Babies. A Faiiy Tale for 

a Laud-Baby. By the Rev. Charles 
Kingsley 10 

267 LaureL Vane; or. The Girls’ Con- 

spiracy. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh 
Miller 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or. The Miser’s 

Treasure. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh 
Miller, , 20 

269 Lancaster s Choice. By Mrs. Alex. 

McVeigh Miller . . 20 

272 The Little Savage. Captain Marry at 10 

273 Love and Mirage; or. The Waiting on 

an Island, An Out-of-Door Ro- 
mance 10 


The above books are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage pi e 
paid, by the publishei% on receipt of 12 cents for single numbers, 17 cents for special numbers, and 
23 cents for double numbers. Parties wishing the fbcfcet Edition of The Seaside Library must be 
careful to mention the Pocket Edition, otherwise the Ordinary Edition will be sent. Address, 

GEORGE WUNRO, Piiblisliev, 

17 to iiT Vaiidewnter Street, New York. 


P. O. Box 3751 





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